


Transforming AUgust

by TheDarkSideofEnergon



Series: AUgust Insanity [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: AUs galore, Additional warnings in chapter 18, Assassins, Assumed Relationship, Dancing, Dragons, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, Humanformers (occasionally), Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Online Gaming, Pirates, Superheroes, hermit crabs, innuendo galore, no really there are, really its just a wild ride from fic to fic, secret agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 41,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkSideofEnergon/pseuds/TheDarkSideofEnergon
Summary: Thirty-one AUs over the course of August, rotating between three pairings.





	1. Knock Out/Breakdown: Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> It’s August, and that means challenge time. But because I fall firmly into the fourth circle of shipper hell, (also cause I get bored), I’m writing multiple pairings in one collection. Whee! So, if you’re here for a certain pairing, check back every third day, since the rotation will go Knock Out/Breakdown, Jazz/Prowl, and Ratchet/Drift. Unbeta’d, as always.

Breakdown got up a little past the fourth joor every orn to make it to the construction site by the fifth joor. The rest of the workers got there at the sixth, but Breakdown liked to get there early to make sure of what needed to be done that day to stay on time. 

Now, at the end of the day, the eighteenth joor on the dot, he stood staring up at the building, mentally calculating how much longer it would take the crew to finish. Theoretically, they were supposed to be done in three decaorns, but Breakdown, looking at the exposed struts and half-finished interior walls, worried that it would be a further two decaorns past that if they couldn’t get caught up. A few days of acid rain had thrown everything off. Looking up, however, Breakdown was unaware of the mech walking behind him until he took a step backwards for a better angle and the sound of metal on metal filled the air as the other mech screeched and fell underneath Breakdown, who tried to turn, overcorrected, and fell flat on top of the other mech. A couple of energon cubes that the other mech had been carrying had broken in the fall, coating them both in the warm-ish liquid.

“Why can’t you fragging watch where you’re stepping, mech?” The other one snapped. “Get off.”

“I didn’t see you there!” Breakdown scrambled up, offering his servo to the mech as he wiped the bits of energon that had gotten on his face away, not paying much attention. When the other mech, still grumbling, took his hand, and Breakdown actually looked at him to apologize again, he nearly dropped the other mech. “I...uh, sorry again.” 

The other mech was a vivid red, with black shading in all the right places. He could tell that the mech put a lot of effort into his finish, simply from the sheer shine to it, which made his spark ache a bit when he saw the scuffs along the other mech’s arms and front where he had hit the pavement and Breakdown. The other mech’s expression went from angry to horrified when he noticed.

“My paint job!” He whined, before glaring at Breakdown. “You—“

Breakdown cut him off. “Look, I’m sorry. I really didn’t see you there. Let me make it up to you?”

The other mech raised an optic ridge and crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”

Breakdown vented as he started picking up the energon cubes. “My apartment isn’t far, and I think I’ve got a buffer. I’ve definitely got a decent shower. And I’ll buy you energon cubes to replace these.” He held up the shattered cubes.

The other mech frowned, then nodded. “Fine, but it has to be from this shop.” He pointed to the logo on the side of the cubes. “And I take two scoops of mercury and one of zinc.”

“Sounds fair.”

They stopped by the energon cafe first, where only Breakdown went inside, the other mech remaining outside in alt mode, since he “wasn’t fit to be seen anywhere.” Coming out with the two cubes (and a third for himself - he needed the boost if he was going to be dealing with this), he subspaced them and transformed back into alt mode. “Ready to fix your paint?”

“You’d better be less clumsy with a buffer than you are on the street.”

“Can I ask something?”

“What?”

“Are you always this cranky?”

“I am not—“

“So that’s a yes then.” Breakdown swerved to avoid a pothole. “Too bad. Thought you were kinda cute, once you got past the attitude.”

The other mech ground to a halt. “...what?”

“What?”

“You think I’m cute?”

“Well, not anymore.”

“Sorry.” The other mech seemed genuine, and a little surprised.

“Okay.” Breakdown was glad he was still in alt mode, because he might actually have smiled at the other mech. Speaking of which…

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“Knock Out.”

“Breakdown. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but…”

“Maybe we can...have a do-over. Once you fix my paint, of course.” The innate swagger that seemed a permanent part of Knock Out’s personality was coming back, but it seemed a bit softer than before.

“At the energon cafe we stopped at, maybe three orns from now?”

“I can probably do that.”

“Let’s buff you out and get that energon off, then.”

They drove in silence for a short time, before Knock Out spoke again.

“Maybe I can fix your paint too. I can see where I scratched yours, too.”

Breakdown would have shrugged if he was in root mode, but as it was, he was restricted to a non-committal sound. “No more than a normal day on the job. Not a big deal.”

“What do you do?”

“Construction. You?”

“Oh...this and that. Whatever pays the bills at the moment. Oh, just a moment.” Knock Out transformed back to his root mode and sat down on the ground, facing the direction of the setting sun. Breakdown transformed and sat next to him, pulling out the energon cubes on an instinct and handing Knock Out his before taking a sip of his own. Knock Out looked at him in surprise before smiling. “You didn’t even ask.”

Breakdown shrugged. “I stop here sometimes too. It’s a nice spot.”

“I stop every day I can.”

“With two energon cubes?”

Knock Out shrugged. “I race at night.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?”

Breakdown shrugged again. “Not all that fast myself. Nobody wants to honestly race with someone who will take twice as long.”

Knock Out looked at him. “I would.”

“You’d be the first.” 

No more words were spoken as the two sat there, drinking their energon from the Lost Light Cafe, and watching the sun drop below the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… it was this or write three full stories a day, or write three tiny drabbles instead of a full prompt. I didn’t want that. You might. I don’t. So enjoy. If you see a prompt and are disappointed it wasn’t for one of the other two, drop me a comment. I might be persuaded to write another short story for them with the same prompt, and just throw it into a series I’ll call “AUgust Insanity.” Spin the wheel of fortune and see where it lands. See you tomorrow!


	2. Jazz/Prowl: College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comes from a tumblr prompt of “You’re the RA and are trying to bust me for having hermit crabs.” I saw it and giggled so that was that. Ended up a little more angsty than intended but whatever.

“Th’ rules only specify th’ _size_ of th’ tank,_ not_ what I can put in it.” Jazz crossed his arms and stared down the mech in his doorway, who was very pointedly not looking at Jazz, and was instead looking at the tank in question. Certainly, it was a regular fish tank, clear, well lit, but rather than having a nice, unassuming betta or goldfish, it had gravel and three tiny hermit crabs. Well, two at the moment. The third was on Jazz’s shoulder, just...sitting there. Snapping its tiny claws. Prowl held back a shudder.

“The implication is that you will put fish in the tank. Not..._those_.”

Jazz uncrossed his arms and picked up the beastie on his shoulder, holding it out. Prowl (successfully) kept his wings from twitching. “Aw, don’cha like ‘em? Besides, they make less of a mess than a fish. If I knock this tank over, it’s jus’ glass, not fifteen gallons of water.” Jazz reached behind him and settled the crab back in its tank. 

“That is beside the point.”

“I don’ think it is, m’mech.” Jazz scowled at Prowl. “Ya may be th’ RA, but yer here t’enforce safety an’ make sure we don’ commit murder or burn th’ buildin’ down, not t’ persecute m’ crabs, which are _not_ listed as banned animals.”

The two mechs stared each other down as a few unlucky mechs scurried by. Normally, they wouldn’t pay Prowl and Jazz any mind, as this (and numerous other “infractions” on Jazz’s part) had become a regular occurrence over the past few weeks, ever since the beginning of the school year when Prowl had seen the tank get moved in. Today, however, the argument seemed different, and the mechs avoided the two as a self-preservation instinct kicked in.

“You are violating the spirit of the rules—"

“Maybe ya should get tha’ rod out of yer aft before ya make th’ whole floor hate ya.” Jazz snapped at him. Prowl’s wings stiffened.

“We aren’t done here.”

“Oh, I think we are. Ya come back when ya can prove m’ crabs are against yer precious rules an’ then I’ll _think_ about sending them t’ live with m’ bro for th' year.” Jazz shut the door in Prowl’s face and slumped against it, growling. The nerve of him, Jazz thought before stalking over to his crab tank. “Ya are harmless little beasties an’ don’t believe for a klik that I’ll send ya home.” He picked up each one and gave it a little kiss on the shell, the crabs trying to grab his olfactory with their little pinchers as he did so. 

On the other side of the door, a practically steaming Prowl was furiously swiping through the student handbook as other residents flattened themselves against the wall in order to keep themselves away from their raging RA. Even the most outgoing of the floor residents, Bluestreak, was quickly shushed by his roommates Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as they hurried past. Prowl hissed as the handbook yielded absolutely no regulations against the crabs on the other side of the metal door and threw it at the door, where it impacted with a bang. Not bothering to pick it up, he stomped back to his room, slamming his door.

A couple hours later, Jazz poked his helm out to see if Prowl was, by chance, still picketing at his door. Not seeing the mech in question, he vented in relief and took a step forward, only to hear a soft crunch. Lifting his pede, he saw what had been a student handbook datapad — probably Prowl’s, if the location and previous bang had been any indication. Venting again, Jazz stuck his helm back into his room to grab his own handbook. He may not like the mech, but they had been warned that destroying or losing their handbooks would carry a fine. He could only imagine what the punishment was for an RA. 

Jazz shut his door behind him and crept down to the RA room, checking the little chart beside the door that Prowl had made to indicate where he was at any given time. Seeing it still set to “In,” Jazz vented in and knocked on the door. He heard a shuffling sound, then a thump, then a muffled “frag” before the door opened, just a crack. Jazz opened his mouth to speak, but Prowl slammed the door shut again. Jazz scowled and knocked again. “Prowl, I don’t care tha’ ya don’t like m’, but I need t’ talk t' ya.” He called quietly. No reason to tell the rest of the floor that he and Prowl weren’t just having their usual tiff.

“One klik,” came from inside the room, and a few kliks later the door opened again, Prowl’s entire body visible this time, doorwings held high and stiff. “What do you want, Jazz?”

Jazz cleared his vocalizer. “So, uh, ya left ya handbook pad in front of m’door an’ well… it’s kinda broken.” Jazz muttered before handing over his own pad.

“This does not appear broken.”

“‘S mine. Figured I’d be nice an’ take th’ fine since I’m th’ one tha’ got ya steamed up enough ta take it out on yers.”

Prowl shook his helm and handed back Jazz’s pad. “No. It was entirely my own fault for not being able to keep my emotions in check. Please return my own handbook.”

“But yer gonna get in trouble.”

Prowl vented. “And why would you care? I am attempting to get you to send your hermit crabs home. I have been making your life a living Pit since you came. Why should you care?” Prowl’s voice broke a little at the end, causing Jazz’s attention and emotions to snap from mildly annoyed at his attempt at peace being rebuffed to concern.

“Are ya alright, Prowler?”

“Yes. And I have asked you not to call me that.”

“I don’t think ya are.”

“Give me my pad and go away.”

“Not until ya tell m’ what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Then why-“

“Because I need this job!” Prowl snapped, before his doorwings flattened and his helm dropped. “Please. Just give me my handbook so I can try and explain that I tripped and fell and crushed it rather than the fact that I threw it at another student’s door.”

Jazz shook his head and held out his own again. “Look, m’mech, I don’t know ya tha’ well, but I think ya need a friend. And friends cover for each other. So take mine. I can pay a 200 cred fine easier than ya can try ta lie about why yer pad broke.”

Prowl’s doorwings raised and dipped again in defeat. “Thank you.”

“No problem, m’mech.” Jazz handed him the pad, which Prowl took this time. He moved to close the door, but stopped suddenly. “I don’t actually hate your crabs, beyond their claws.” Prowl blurted out. “I just don’t want to get in trouble if there is an inspection from the residence staff.”

Jazz gave him a lopsided grin. “Like I said, Prowler. Rules don’t say what I can keep in th’ tank, just what size it can be. An’ it’s just below th’ maximum. An’ their claws don’t hurt that much. Trust me, they’ve grabbed m’ servos and olfactory more than once. Yer fine.”

Prowl hesitated, then opened the door again. “...Perhaps you could introduce me to them, then?”

Jazz grinned from audial to audial. “It’d be m’ pleasure, Prowler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww :p. Well, at least they’re friends. See ya tomorrow!


	3. Ratchet/Drift: Neighbors

Ratchet groaned and rubbed his optics, wrinkling his olfactory as the spicy-sweet smell of incense wafted out into the hallway. Even once he was inside, he could hear the light ring and hum of whatever music his neighbor was playing through his berthroom wall, despite having flopped facedown in a method of burying himself into a lack of sound that belied his age and supposed wisdom. He muffled his curses into his pillows. He’d somehow never met this neighbor, despite yelling at him to shut up multiple nights (admittedly, the noise usually stopped after that, but it was the principle of the thing!) and generally attempting to make himself enough of a recluse that the neighbor wouldn’t come poking around.

Energon. High grade. That’s what he needed. A good, strong high grade. He dragged himself back up, joints creaking a little as he moved off towards the kitchen.

“Fraggin’ neighbor. I could have moved into the apartment next to Optimus, but no. I wanted to be closer to the hospital.” Ratchet glared at his berthroom as he poured himself the strongest high grade he could find. Probably wasn’t strong enough. Of course… Ratchet eyed the over-sized cube. There was definitely enough there for two mechs. Well, one and a couple drinks to pretend to be friendly. Ratchet weighed the convenience of possibly having one night of quiet to the loss of his high grade.

The quiet won out.

Gathering up two drinking cubes and the high grade, Ratchet stuffed his keys back in his subspace and made his way over to the neighbor’s door, wrinkling his olfactory at the stronger incense smell. Hands full, he chose to kick the door a couple of times rather than knock. The music stopped instantly and the door opened a few kliks later. 

When Ratchet saw the mech in front of him, he almost scoffed. This was barely an adult.

“Can I help you?” His neighbor leaned against the doorframe, holding the door open with one hand, optic ridge raised.

Ratchet held up the cubes and high grade. “Drink?” Oh, he certainly hoped this kid was legal or he’d never hear the end of it from Optimus.

“Sure. Come in.” The mech stepped out of the way and Ratchet restrained himself just enough to step past normally and not try to bump into him. 

The room was...surprisingly normal. Sure, the incense was burning in the corner, there was a mat on the floor by the window, and there was some sort of water bowl nearby, but other than that… there were blankets on the sofa, books on the shelves, and what looked like some energon-tea on the table. Ratchet peeked around the corner (although he wouldn’t admit it) as he set down the cubes to see if the berthroom was open. It wasn’t, and Ratchet felt vaguely disappointed. Of course, that’s where any really odd stuff would be. Ah, he could snoop later when he had this mech overcharged and passed out. 

“I’m Ratchet.” He found himself volunteering as he poured two cubes full and offered one to his impromptu host.

“Drift.” The mech took the cube and sat down on the chair across from Ratchet, crossing his legs and looking Ratchet up and down. Ratchet felt vaguely like a bug on a pin, and oddly fidgety in the presence of this mech who sat so very still in the moment and yet made weird noises at the third joor of the morning. He covered it up by taking a sip of his high-grade.

“So why did you suddenly come kicking down my door?” Drift asked, his assessment seemingly done for the moment.

Ratchet snorted. “Hardly kicked it down. Had this cube. Didn’t feel like drinking alone.” He took another sip. So did Drift.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Your aura says otherwise.”

Ratchet jerked his helm up and glared at Drift. “And what, exactly, does my aura say?” 

The tone of voice he used was one that anyone who had spent any time with him recognized as the “Doctor of Doom,” in which wrenches were bound to fly and curses given out as liberally as the lollipops that the good doctor kept for sparklings. Drift, having never spent time with Ratchet before now, had no such frame of reference, and only recognized that he had annoyed the mech sitting across from him somehow. Without the fear of a wrench to the helm to cause a serious case of being glossa-tied, it was significantly easier process to remain calm.

“Chill out, Ratchet. I’m just saying what I’m seeing. You don’t believe in auras, then?”

“I’m a doctor. I believe what I can see and touch.”

“And I have faith in what I can see and can’t touch.” Drift said, mildly. He could see Ratchet’s aura (which had been yellow the first time he pointed it out — the mech wasn’t outright lying, just hiding the truth), go from red to a softer pinkish color. Clearly, the high-grade was working. It was strong stuff. Drift took another sip. He’d really need to find out where his neighbor got this. Despite what Ratchet seemed to believe, Drift was not out to make his life miserable, and was, instead, simply trying to practice his meditation at a time when his neighbors were unlikely to be in or trying to rest. For most of them (since Drift already knew they worked nights), it was fine. However, he had never been able to pin down when Ratchet worked, and so was constantly annoying him, quite on accident. He voiced this particular thought, and Ratchet snorted again.

“Could have just asked, kid.”

“I’m hardly a kid.”

“Really? You barely look old enough to drink.”

Drift just smiled and gave Ratchet his age, to be instantly rewarded with Ratchet spitting his drink out. 

“There is no way you are within five thousand years of my age.”

“Healthy living.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Good frame and healthy spark courtesy of Primus then.”

“More like you got lucky.” Ratchet muttered into his drink. 

“About as lucky as you’re going to be in getting me overcharged. At least, without you going right with me.”

Ratchet slammed his cube down. “And how do you figure that?”

“Just a good guess.” Might as well not tell him his aura had been suggesting annoyance since the minute he walked in. Didn’t take a genius to piece it together. Drift leaned forwards. “If you wanted to ask me out, all you had to do was ask.” He winked, causing Ratchet to sputter again, and downed the rest of his cube. “Let’s see just how good this high grade of yours is.”

Turns out, it was very, very good, as the two mechs slumped against each other on the sofa would agree the next morning — after some straight mid-grade, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet just wants his peace and quiet, y'all. See ya tomorrow!


	4. Knock Out/Breakdown: Secret Agents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost made this one a Ratchet/Drift...but...well. Temptation won out. Lightly inspired by Shadowrun.

They’d told him it would be a simple mission. Get in, get the information, and get out. Minimal security cameras, no real people. They were sloppy: that part was true. Breakdown didn’t even really care about what they had sent him in to get. He knew it required brute force or some computer hacking — in this case, a little of both. Elevators didn’t run after the twenty-third joor (and wouldn’t until the fifth), which meant that he had to climb the elevator shaft. That was fine. Then he had to open the doors from the inside. Also fine.

What was not fine was, upon entering the penthouse office, seeing a slim red mech sitting on the desk near the computer, leaning back to check the progress on whatever he was doing and tapping his claws on the desk. Breakdown had his weapon out before the other mech could move.

Rather than cower, however, or even take cover, the other mech just raised an optic ridge.

“Well, that’s no way to begin an acquaintance, now is it?” The other mech drawled out, leaning forwards just a bit to show off his bumper.

Breakdown kept his weapon trained on the mech, and ran a quick scan. They were alone, unless there was another mech with cloaking. “So we’re acquaintances? You and me?”

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” The mech rocked back to check the computer, before sighing. “Really, you’d think they’d get better speeds around here. Fancy place like this.”

“They stop running the elevators at the twenty-third joor. Not that fancy.”

“Mmm, true.” He sighed again, before eyeing Breakdown. “We could...entertain ourselves while we wait.”

“Wait for what?” Breakdown purposefully ignored the first part of that statement. He would not get distracted on the job. Even if the mech in front of him was sitting in a very suggestive manner. And was easy on the optics. And had an interest. Nope. Not getting distracted at all.

“Oh, for our download to be done.”

“What makes you think I’m here for a download?”

“Like you said, it’s not that fancy of a place. Let me tell you though — what they save on electricity and physical security, they spend on digital security.”

“So they purposely make it look like it’s not worth breaking into.”

“Bingo. Right down to the fifty or so creds and a few other vaguely interesting but not terribly valuable for anyone but a very, very specific type of mech items in the safe over there.” The red mech gestured to the safe, which Breakdown could see out of the corner of his optic was open. 

“I assume you made it look like a smash and grab.”

“Obviously. I happen to know a very, very specific mech, so it was worth it as a side prize. But this,” he tapped the computer, “is what we both want. And I suspect our personal download speeds are a lot better than theirs.”

“And why are you willing to give me the info?”

The mech snorted. “I’m being paid to get it, not to keep it secret. Perks of being a freelancer. Besides, I’d rather get out of here with my finish intact.” He checked again and groaned. “Their speeds really are slag for their security. They’re getting conned.”

Breakdown lowered the gun, just a bit. “So if I put away my gun, you won’t shoot me, I won’t shoot you, we wait until it’s done, and we both get the info?”

The mech shrugged. “Well, we could do that. Or…” he blatantly looked Breakdown up and down. “You put away your gun, we have fun until it’s done, and we both get the info.”

Not getting distracted. Breakdown lowered his gun and holstered it, though he left the clasp loose for the moment. He leaned against the wall. “How much longer does it have?”

The other mech smirked. “Oh, long enough to have a round. Or two. It’s only at 45%.”

Breakdown just smiled indulgently. “And how long, exactly, do you think that’ll be for you? Ten breems?”

A strangled choking sound was the only response he got for a moment. The other mech’s jaw dropped open, just a little. Breakdown chuckled and glanced around the office, keeping a corner of an optic on the mech. “I am curious how you got in.”

“...Vents.” The other mech cleared his vocalizer out. There was still a little static in it. “And, if you must know, I’ve already been here half a joor.”

Breakdown’s jaw dropped this time. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.”

“How do they not go insane?”

“It’s a big file.”

“Just to make sure we’re actually after the same thing…”

“The energon mine records?”

“Yup.”

“Who really cares about how much energon was mined, anyways?”

“What do you think you could do if you had the approximate usages and rations for an area, but there was still a ‘shortage’ from the mines? Or, to put it another way, what if there was a ‘shortage’ of energy, but no evidence that the mines were laying off miners, or having any sort of difficulty?”

“Oh.”

“Guess they don’t tell freelancers everything.”

“Guess they tell agents everything.”

Breakdown shrugged. “Nah. Just know miners who say everything is fine, and I know I’m getting less energon than before. I actually don’t care why they want it. I just want my pay and rations.”

“Don’t we all. It’s at almost 50% now.”

Breakdown slid down against the wall, settling on the floor. “This is going to be a long night.”

“Hey, at least I got it started for you.” The other mech swung his legs a little.

“Thanks for that.” Breakdown grinned a little. “So what do I call you?”

“Sexy?”

It was Breakdown’s turn to choke a little, much to the amusement of the other. “I’m joking. Knock Out.”

"Odd to tell me your actual name."

"Hardly a secret. Downside of being a freelancer. You?"

Breakdown hesitated. “...Impound.”

The smirk he got from Knock Out told him that he knew that was a load of slag. “Alright, Impound.” He purred. “So now that we know each other’s names…” he reached into his subspace (causing Breakdown to reach for his gun, a movement that Knock Out waved off) and pull out a flask of highgrade. “Drink?” He took a swig to prove it wasn’t poisoned, then tossed it to Breakdown. He sniffed. Smelled fine. He tried a sip. Tasted fine too. Knock Out opened his mouth to prove he’d swallowed his, so Breakdown decided to take the chance. At least if he went out, it was on good highgrade with a good-looking mech.

The two spent the next joor occasionally chatting about safe subjects (like sports and crystals), but mostly just sitting there in silence, tossing the flask back and forth. Finally, a _beep beep_ caused Knock Out to jump off the desk and go back around to pull out a flash drive, which he hooked into his own systems as Breakdown stood up. A couple breems later, Knock Out nodded. “It’s clean.” He logged out of the system, putting it back to sleep. “Clean extraction, clean file.” He sauntered around to Breakdown. “Want the flash drive, or maybe something more...intimate?”

Breakdown rolled his optics. “I’ll take the drive.” He grabbed it and hooked it into his systems, downloading the info. As he did so, he carefully partitioned it off into a separate section, just in case Knock Out had been lying. It didn’t seem like he was, but one never could tell. The file downloaded, he handed back the flash drive.

“Well.” Knock Out said.

“I guess that’s that then.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Breakdown opened his mouth to speak, but found another pair of lips on his, keeping him from speaking. His optics widened for a moment before he made the decision to enjoy himself as he wrapped his arms around the smaller mech and deepened the sudden kiss. Knock Out ran his glossa along Breakdown’s lip, asking for entrance, which he very happily gave. It could have been five kliks or five breems later when they finally broke apart, venting heavily. Knock Out smirked and backed away. “It’s been fun, Impound.” Before Breakdown could speak, Knock Out had launched himself at the window, throwing himself through it. Breakdown raced forwards, only to see no sign of the mech.

“Well, frag.” 

Maybe there was some benefit to getting distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, I suspect this one will have a continuation/conclusion later this month. It’s already over 1400 words, so… yeah. For now, see ya tomorrow!


	5. Jazz/Prowl: Dance

Jazz breathed slowly as he eased his way through the Metalliko forms. Calm. Centered. A dance with himself and the area around him. He balanced, centered on one pede before setting the other down and bowing. Wiping away the condensation that had settled on his plating, he took a sip from the chilled energon nearby.

That’s when he heard it. The soft, twinkling sounds of the  _ Fairy of Iacon _ . Jazz looked around the dojo, but saw nothing. He poked his head out into the hallway. The sound was louder out here. He crept across the floor toward the door on the other side, peeking through the window set next to it. His breath caught in his throat.

A black-and-white Praxian was moving perfectly— if a little stiffly — through the choreography for the grand solo of the Fairy. Jazz had gone to see the ballet just last month, so the solo was still fresh in his mind. Then, it had been performed by a slim femme Seeker with all the grace and ease of a trained dancer. Jazz could tell this mech was a student. It was in how he held his doorwings, in the way his movements were too precise and focused, rather than memorized and flowing. 

But Primus... Jazz could only imagine that this meh was what the original composer of the ballet had in mind when they wrote this music — a gorgeous mech who could turn heads and who could be a grand fae come to bring love to two unhappy couples. 

The mech spun in place as the dance finished, and Jazz had just enough time to duck out of sight before the mech could see him. He rushed back across the hall and through the dojo door, leaning against it and gulping in deep vents of air. Oh, he hoped the other mech hadn’t seen him, standing there, probably slack-jawed and drooling. That was  _ not _ the introduction he wanted to the most gorgeous mech he had ever seen. 

He’d also never been so glad the rest of the students weren’t there yet, just the sensei, who was sitting in the corner with a little smirk on his face as he watched Jazz try to regain his center.

Students.

And then Jazz had possibly the worst idea he had ever had and probably ever would.

* * *

“This is Jazz. He just signed up for class yesterday.” The instructor, Tightrope, introduced him to the class. Jazz had been keeping an optic out for the Praxian he had seen, but was quickly disappointed. So he put on a smile and waved.

“Glad t’ be here. I take classes at th’ dojo across th’ hall but thought I’d try somethin’ new.”

A general nod and simple acceptance made its way around the group. Jazz slipped into place at a barre near a red and white mech, and followed the exercises with all the attention he could. Some mega tried to rush the exercises, getting ahead of the music by nano-clicks. Some were slow, valuing preciseness over the music’s energy. Jazz tried to stick with the instructor’s instructions, but still tried to feel the music in his spark. It was a unique challenge, and as the next few breems ticked by, he started to enjoy himself, regardless of his original intentions for coming. The class ended without any sight of the Praxian, and though Jazz’s spark sank a little, it  _ had _ been an interesting couple of joors.

Well, there was always the next cycle.

* * *

Sure enough, the next cycle when Jazz walked in, the pretty Praxian was there, on the floor, stretched out with pedes in the air. Jazz’s spark jumped a little and he made himself breath normally.

The red-and-white Jazz had stood next to was chatting with him. Well,  _ at _ him if the Praxian’s abbreviated answers were any indication.

“So where were you last cycle?”

“Work.”

“Was it interesting?”

“As interesting as usual.”

“Solve any murders?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Mind if I cut in?” Jazz joked as he sat down nearby. Suddenly, he had the full force of the Praxian’s optics on him and his spark did that little jump again when he saw the pure, intense icy blue that they were.  _ Well, frag me sideways. It’s not just his frame that’s gorgeous. _

“You are new.” The Praxian stated.

“Yeah. Just joined last cycle. Thought I’d try somethin’ new.”  _ And maybe someone _ .

The red and white melded back into another group, leaving the two in their own little conversation.

“I am Prowl.”

“Jazz.” He stuck out his servo for a shake, which the Praxian took at an odd angle because of his current position. “So yer an Enforcer?”

“I am.”

“Detective or beat cop? Or administrative?”

Prowl raised an optic ridge. “Detective.”

“Cool. What department?”

“I was unaware we were playing twenty questions about myself.” Prowl’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, something that Jazz would have missed if he hadn’t been used to his own sensei’s subtle moods. Jazz grinned.

“Sorry. Just tryin’ ta find out who ya are.”

“Why?” Prowl’s optic slid over to Jazz’s visor.

“I...uh…” Jazz scrambled to come up with an answer beyond  _ I saw you dancing and thought you were gorgeous but didn’t want to be a creep _ .

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with watching me dance two cycles ago?” Prowl stated, tone mild.

Jazz sputtered and hung his head. “Ya saw me.”  _ Well, there goes that chance _ .

“You are a rather distinctive frame and hard to miss.”

“Sorry, m’mech. Heard th’ music an’ got curious.”

“I did not mind.” Prowl shrugged, an awkward movement from his current place on the floor. “Most mechs and femmes say I am difficult to watch. But you did.” He shifted positions, sitting up to look Jazz in the face properly. “So, again, why?”

“I wasn’t aware we were playin’ twenty questions, m’mech.” Jazz teased. Prowl’s mouth twitched again and he moved his head in acknowledgment. Jazz took a deep vent. “Wouldn’t mind doin’ it over a drink sometime, though?”

A couple of kliks passed, Prowl’s optics still fixed on Jazz.

“I mean, only if—“

“That would be acceptable.” Prowl cut him off smoothly. “I have work early tomorrow, but I would be free after class next cycle.”

Jazz’s spark didn’t just jump, it went on a full rollercoaster ride. “Tha’ would work just fine, m’mech.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s offering: Jazz being a little bit of a stalker! Prowl doesn’t mind too much though. Anyways. See ya tomorrow (or three days from now if you’re just here for these two lovelies <3)


	6. Ratchet/Drift: Internet

Ratchet would never, ever, even under pain of deactivation, admit that he played Sparks of Fury Online. It was undignified for a grown mech to be playing an online game, much less SOFO, which had the reputation as being the game that young, reckless, stupid mechs played to their own deactivations from starvation. Ratchet had seen a couple mechs come through the hospital dangerously low on fluids, only alive because their friends thought to check up on them and dragged them in. 

Still, Ratchet knew that not every mech that played was like that. He was actually part of a clan of adult mechs and femmes who had actual lives beyond the game. A few he knew in real life (though he didn’t admit that he knew them in game). Most hilariously and notoriously, he knew the clan leader. With a screen-name of PrimusesChosenOne, it hadn’t been hard to connect the dots after Optimus had spilled the beans one night, saying that he played “occasionally.” (The truth? Ratchet didn’t know how he managed to get any work done, and had asked Optimus tactfully how he balanced gaming and his job. Optimus had smiled and admitted that he generally left the game running in a smaller window on his computer so he was there if there were problems, but didn’t pay much attention otherwise).

Then there was Jazz (ShadowMeister) who was not shy about the fact that he played, and surprised no-one who knew him. What had surprised mechs was learning that Prowl (PraxTac) also played. Actually, they later admitted that they’d met in-game and had chosen to meet in reality, only to hit it off even more spectacularly and get bonded both in-game and real life.

Even Arcee (HaterofSpiders) played. Whenever the five of them got together for dinner or drinks, the four of them would gently tease Ratchet for not playing and suggest that he try it. 

“Oh, believe me, I see enough gamers come through my hospital. You’ll come through soon enough.” Ratchet would respond, deflecting their comments. Really, he wouldn’t have minded telling them, but he’d deflected for too long now and he dreaded the ruining of his perfectly-crafted reputation as a crotchety old medic with no life.

Really, with a username like DoctorofDoom, it surprised him that they hadn’t figured it out yet. He wasn’t sorry that they hadn’t, but still. He shook his helm as he settled down at his computer after dinner to run a few quests before he went into recharge. Tapping his servos on the desk as he waited for the game to load. Connecting to the servers. Finally, the game dropped him into his ship and let him pick where he wanted to go. First, Ratchet checked the clan to see who was on. Optimus (of course), KaboomandDone, SexyandIKnowIt, StilettoSeeker, HammerTime, WreckingBall, KaonsSavior, and one he hadn’t seen before — PrayingSword. Ratchet raised an optic ridge and sent a private message to them. 

_ DoctorofDoom: You’re new? _

It took a few moments, but the strange name responded.

_ PrayingSword: yep. I actually just started playing a few orns ago. joined this clan since I wanted a group of actual mechs to play with, not hotshots who rush you through or kill steal. _

Ratchet found himself smiling. Just a bit.

_ DoctorofDoom: Our leader is good at keeping it that way. So what do you do? _

_ PrayingSword: This and that. Soldier for a long time. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Doctor. _

_ PrayingSword: I figured. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Let me know if you need any help. _

_ PrayingSword: will do. _

Ratchet closed the private chat and went back to his playing, eventually logging off for the night.

He didn’t really think about the other player until the next orn. Checking the list, he could see that only the two of them were online.

_ PrayingSword: evening. could I get some help on this quest? keeps kicking my aft. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Evening. Which one? _

_ PrayingSword: escorting Freight across the scrapyard. the zombies keep swarming and she walks way too slow. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Everyone hates that one, especially on-level. The devs keep promising to turn down the number of spawns and speed up her pathing but they never do. Give me a klik to switch to a dps character. _

_ PrayingSword: stupid ******* zombies _

_ DoctorofDoom: Indeed. _

With the two of them keeping the scrap zombies at bay, the quest went far more smoothly. Afterwards, they chatted for a bit longer about the best strategy for the next couple missions in the chain, after which Ratchet said good night and logged off, since he had an early shift. 

Unfortunately, Ratchet didn’t have a chance to play again for nearly two cycles. He had barely logged on when the other mech sent him a private message.

_ PrayingSword: haven’t seen you on in a bit. everything okay? _

_ DoctorofDoom: It was unusually busy at the hospital. Long shifts. Early mornings, late nights. _

_ PrayingSword: Glad you’re okay. _

Ratchet smiled, something he found himself doing a lot when chatting with this mech. His real friends knew that Ratchet might disappear for megacycles at a time, and yet this mech was concerned after just two cycles? The two chatted for close to two joors, even after everyone else said good night in the group chat, even Optimus.

_ DoctorofDoom: So, is there a story behind the username? _

_ PrayingSword: long story short, I got out of the military and found religion. _

_ DoctorofDoom: You’d better not be one of those pushy woo-woo ones. _

_ PrayingSword: be happy to debate it with you. but if you’re going to ask that, you must have one too. _

_ DoctorofDoom: I was young and stupid once. Thought about PartyAmbulance but realized anyone who knew me back then would put two and two together. _

_ PrayingSword: now that’s a name I need explained. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Fine, but it doesn’t leave this chat. Also, it’s a little...explicit. _

_ PrayingSword: you have my word. and that just makes me want to hear it more. _

Ratchet smirked as he typed the next few paragraphs about the exploitation of a holoform and a custom paint job. Never had he been more glad that private chats weren’t monitored for content. He hit “send,” sat back, and waited. Three breems passed before the other one responded.

_ PrayingSword: you...weren’t joking.  _ _ dear primus WHY. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Because I could. And as I said: young and stupid. _

_ PrayingSword: no offense, but I’d have to meet you to believe it. _

_ DoctorofDoom: Well, unless you happen to live in Iacon, you’ll just have to take my word for it. _

_ PrayingSword: so next orn, say tenth joor at the gaslight cafe down on 54th? I’ll be wearing a giant sword, can’t miss me. _

Ratchet’s processor started to spin. This was a horrible idea. A horrible, horrible idea. This mech could be an axe murderer, it could be someone from work trolling him, it could be someone he never wanted to speak to again….

_ DoctorofDoom: I’ll be there. _

Maybe it would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not my finest work, but I had a dickens of a time finding an idea for this one *shrug*  
Though, as someone who used to be addicted to online gaming… well, I had way too much fun coming up with screen names for everyone. :p
> 
> Also, I updated the chapter titles so you can find whichever pairing you're looking for without counting the days. :) You're welcome!
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	7. Knock Out/Breakdown: Royalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I had a dickens of a time deciding what I was going to do with this one. Enjoy?

Prince Knock Out had never been one for staying in the palace like a proper royal. Despite his fine finish (and how he liked to keep it that way!), he much preferred going out, seeing the other mechs and femmes that made up his future kingdom…

And if he was a little bit of a romantic at heart, and imagined that maybe a handsome stranger would sweep him off his feet and away from responsibility, well, nobody would ever know.

On this particular evening, Knock Out slipped from his window, down the thick plant matter growing on the wall, and over the garden wall. It was the Heritage Festival down in the market tonight, and nobody could keep Knock Out from a dance and a bit of highgrade that wasn’t meant to be sipped delicately from a decorative cube. No, Knock Out wanted the good, strong, wipe-your-processor-for-an-orn stuff they sold down in the tavern. It would help him forget that he was supposed to bond in three orns. Supposedly, his soon-to-be-bonded had arrived at the palace two orns, but tradition dictated that they wouldn’t see the other until the ceremony. It was a tradition that could go to the pits, as far as Knock Out was concerned, and one that he fully intended to change as soon as he was King. Not that that helped him at the moment, he thought bitterly as he strolled to the square. He forced a smile onto his face as he got closer. He hadn’t bothered with any sort of disguise — the citizens would recognize him anyways, but not a single one would rat him out. 

Besides, the real crime would be denying mechs and femmes the privilege of seeing his gorgeous frame.

That thought in his processor, Knock Out found a little genuineness for his smile and a little swagger for his walk. A few mechs and femmes nodded to him as he walked by, rather than bowing, but the vast majority ignored him, like they would any other mech. He breathed easier as he approached the hustle and bustle of the festival, drawn on by the music and cheers. He was swept into the dancing practically as soon as he stepped pede in the square, and he let out a laugh. This was what he lived for! It might have been five breems or fifty before he extricated himself from the whirling, stomping, colorful blur of mechs and femmes, only to be pushed a little by the crowds...and right into the arms of another mech. 

“Watch the pa— Apologies.” Knock Out muttered, as the other mech helped set him upright again.

“It’s fine. No harm no foul, right?” The other mech replied, humor in his voice. Knock Out hummed in response, looking up at the other mech, who was a fair bit taller than him. With burnt orange faceplates and a blue and white paint job, he wasn’t the ugliest mech Knock Out had ever seen. Actually, he was sort of handsome. In a way.

“I’m Breakdown.” He said, pulling Knock Out away from the dancing and to a table selling high grade, which he purchased and handed to Knock Out, who accepted it gratefully.

“Knock Out.” He responded. No use in hiding his designation. Everyone knew it anyways.

“Knock Out. It fits.”

Knock Out smiled into his drink as Breakdown continued. “So what are you doing here?”

“Escaping for an evening.” Knock Out muttered.

Breakdown frowned. “Escaping what?”

Knock Out paused and looked at him curiously. There was no false pity in those optics (and what a nice yellow they were…), no guile. It… was almost as if the mech  _ didn’t _ know who he was.

“Just… stuff.” Knock Out responded lamely.

Breakdown just looked down at his cube of highgrade and nodded slowly. “I get what you mean. I’m new in town, figured I’d get to know the place before I’m tied to it irrevocably.”

Knock Out grinned. “So you figured you’d go all out on a local festival, sweep the first good-looking mech or femme off their pedes, and have a wild night to remember?”

Breakdown chuckled. “Yes to the first and third parts, though the second was a happy accident.” Knock Out felt his faceplates heat up as he suddenly found a very interesting rock on the ground. “But that sounds specific to you, Knock Out.”

Knock Out shrugged. “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to be bonded in three orns.”

Breakdown sighed. “Yeah, me either.” 

Knock Out laughed, but without any real mirth. “What a coincidence.”

“Yeah.” 

They stood there in silence for a few breems, drinking their energon and watching the dancers. They finished their cubes and set them to the side.

“So is there any more to this festival, or…?” Breakdown asked.

Knock Out grinned. “Oh, there’s so much more. Follow me.”

The two spent the next three joors wandering the market, sampling energon treats and each of the craft-made highgrades, sometimes feeding each other, laughing, chatting about lighthearted things, ignoring that they were each getting bonded in three orns. Tonight was about them, and life, and what it had to offer. It was nearing midnight when the two finally made it back to the square, by now pleasantly buzzed. As they did, the music started to slow down, inviting couples out for a more romantic moment between the high-energy ones of the festival. Breakdown looked over at Knock Out.

“How about it?” He held out his hand, waiting, a little smile on his face.

Knock Out hesitated, before shrugging. “Sure.” He took Breakdown’s hand, and the two moved into the main part of the square, just another couple among dozens. Breakdown put one hand on Knock Out’s waist, the other holding a little more firmly on Knock Out’s own. 

Knock Out slid his free hand up Breakdown’s chassis, feeling the warm, strong metal, finally bringing it to rest on his shoulder. The two began to waltz, letting the softer music flow over and around them. Perhaps they had only just met, shoved together on accident, but Knock Out already wanted to stay here for a long, long time. Preferably the next three orns. Maybe even after. His optics met Breakdown’s, and he saw an open desire there. Not willing to acknowledge it ( _ not yet, anyway _ ), he let his helm fall against Breakdown’s chassis. In response, Breakdown pulled him a little closer, letting his head fall on top of Knock Out’s, turning their waltz into more of a stationary sway to the music. They stayed like that until the music paused, allowing any couples not interested in the frenzy to vacate. Knock Out looked back up at Breakdown, a small smile crossing his faceplates.

“Do...you believe in falling in love in one night?” Knock Out whispered.

“I don’t think I did before now.” Breakdown whispered back. 

The two smiled at each other, a little sadly. They knew tonight was all they’d have. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come out tonight, to meet a strange mech and let themselves be strangers in love, but neither could find it in themselves to regret it.

“Let me have tonight?” Breakdown whispered, low and right in Knock Out’s audial, making him shiver.

“Gladly.”

Breakdown bent down and kissed Knock Out softly, sweetly, but with the promise of more if he let him. And oh, he was going to let him.

Soon before dawn, the two lovers slipped out of the little inn room, exchanging a final tender kiss and goodbye. They knew it was the last time they’d ever speak. But what a happy night it had been.

But now, three orns later, on the morning of his bonding, Knock Out looked at his veil and hoped that whoever his bonded was, he was just as kind and sweet as Breakdown had been that night.

On the other side of the palace, Breakdown was hoping that the prince he was bonding to was just as sassy and quick to love as Knock Out had been.

The two just  _ barely _ maintained decorum during the ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have been REALLY mean and made their bonding dates a true coincidence and, uh… I chickened out because I have a romantic streak and yeah. Angst with a happy ending and a tiiiny bit of fluff. :) see ya tomorrow!


	8. Jazz/Prowl: Laundromat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humanformers, because while I did think of a proper Cybertronian laundromat (basically giant dishwashers LOL) it made more sense to just make it an actual one.

Jazz had always hated the laundromat. This often surprised people — shouldn’t he love the exhibition, the chance to meet new people?

Shockingly, while he had very little shame as to what he was washing and didn’t really care if people saw his wet underwear, sitting around while doing nothing and staring at the machine as it spun wasn’t high on his to-do list. Even listening to music simply emphasized the hours he could be doing something with. 

Today, especially, was rather odious. Jazz had had to switch shifts with a coworker (Jazz normally worked nights, but the coworker had needed to catch a flight at noon and so Jazz had agreed to switch), leaving him at the laundromat at a much earlier time than normal. Of course, this also meant that everyone else who worked a normal shift would be there. And they were. 

Every washer was taken, and as more than a few were out-of-order, this left a lot of people shoving and stuffing their laundry in the second someone else’s load was done. Shifting from foot to foot, Jazz groaned. “Why’s th’ place gotta be like this?” He asked rhetorically to no-one in particular.

“If it’s any consolation, impatience doesn't get them very far.” A voice behind him said. Jazz turned around, raising an eyebrow at the man.

“Try tellin’ them that.”

The man shook his head, and his lips twitched. “I do have a sense of self-preservation, despite what my colleagues tell me.”

Jazz chuckled. “Fair enough. I’m Jazz.” He shifted his laundry bag to one hand and held out the other. The other man did the same.

“Prowl.”

“Ya usually here around this time, then?”

Prowl shook his head. “I prefer to come in late at night. I can work that way, rather than constantly monitoring my clothes.”

Jazz nodded. “Same. Well, not the working part.” He eyed Prowl. “Ya really bring work t’ th’ laundromat?”

Prowl frowned. “Why would I not? It’s two hours of otherwise wasted time.”

Jazz shook his head. “Ya could at least read.”

Prowl’s lips quirked again. “I do, occasionally. I just find it more efficient to think through cases for two hours.”

“Efficiency ain’t everythin’.” Jazz grinned. “Gotta have some fun too.”

“Cases are interesting.”

“Maybe t’ a… what do ya do, anyways?”

“Homicide detective. You?”

“This and that. I guess they’re interestin’ t’ a detective.”

“They are.”

“But if yer not working on a case, what do ya do?” Jazz prompted. There must be more to this guy than murders and laundry. And grilling this guy beat waiting in silence for twenty minutes.

“I’m always working on a case.”

“But hypothetically, if ya weren’t?” 

Prowl paused. “Hypothetically, I’d read, or maybe play chess or Go against a computer. Since it’s unlikely I’d find a partner for either here.”

Jazz grinned. Bingo. “Chess or Go?”

Prowl nodded. “Do you play?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Jazz shifted his bag to the other hand. “But, like ya said, hard t’ find a partner t’ play with.”

Prowl was prevented from answering by a sudden lull in washer-claiming (mostly as it had suddenly moved to the dryers, and, because of the sheer size difference, become even worse), and the opening of a single washer, with a prompt removal of clothes by the owner of said laundry. Jazz moved forwards, then eyed Prowl’s basket, as well as the timers on the rest of the washers. Prowl would be waiting for at least another half hour, or…

“Want t’ toss your stuff in w’ mine? Split the cost?” Jazz asked.

Prowl blinked. “We hardly know each other.”

Jazz shrugged and grinned. “I’ve got nothin’ t’ hide. Just clothes.”

Prowl paused before dumping his clothes in with Jazz’s. “I suppose you have a point, and it’s more efficient this way.” 

Jazz’s grin never left his face. “Believe me, I’m full of good ideas.” 

Prowl just snorted.

Their shared load started, the two leaned against a counter to wait for their laundry to be done.

Prowl spoke. “Continuing our conversation, however, I’m curious as to how good you are.”

“At what?” Jazz forced a straight face as Prowl looked at him with an expression of amusement. 

“Chess. Unless you were talking about something else?” Prowl responded, deadpan despite his expression.

Jazz chuckled. “I like ya, man. But to answer yer question, it’s been a bit since I had th’ chance t’play, but I was pretty good as a teen. Picked up Go in college. Roommate liked it.”

“Would you be interested in a game, then?” Prowl pulled out a tablet. “I have both chess and Go apps.”

Jazz grinned. “Beats doing nothing. Yer choice.”

Prowl nodded and pulled up Go, turning a little and setting the tablet on the counter between them. “Your move first.”

“Going easy on me then?”

“Hardly. I simply don’t know how you play.”

“Fair enough. Let’s do this.”

The two spent the rest of their wait time playing, only taking a break to switch their laundry from the washer to the dryers. They’d not bothered to sort out anything at that point, just dividing it equally between the two dryers and each paying for one, then going back to their game. They finished just as the dryers did, with Jazz winning by a narrow margin. Prowl looked at the digital board.

“Interesting.” Prowl mused as he put away the tablet. “I’d offer to play again, but folding laundry and doing this would be too difficult.”

Jazz nodded. “Maybe another time.” He opened both dryers and dumped the resulting piles onto the counter. “Ya see anythin’ that’s not yers, just toss it over here.”

Prowl nodded, and the two spent the next thirty minutes in silence, folding and sorting their laundry back out. When they were done, Jazz hesitated, but spoke up anyway.

“It’s been a lot of fun talkin’ t’ ya, Prowl. Maybe we could meet up, do our laundry together again? Maybe bring some dinner?” Jazz’s stomach growled, and he grinned in spite of himself. “Probably where I’m headin’ next anyway.”

Prowl paused. “I… have enjoyed talking to you as well.”

“Well, I’m usually here on Fridays between ten an’ midnight, so anytime ya want that rematch…” Jazz offered.

“I’ll be here next week, then.” Prowl responded. The two shook hands again, gathered up their laundry, and nodded to each other as they went to their respective cars.

As Jazz started up his car, he thought that maybe the laundromat wasn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, it’s at this point in the month that it becomes obvious that I cannot flirt in real life, and don’t understand how others do. Yep. 
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	9. Ratchet/Drift: High School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the obligatory high school AU! Hooray! :P I guess warning for a couple brief mention/occurrences of bullying? High school sucks, y’all.

Drift sat at his table in the corner, watching the other students laugh and chatter amongst themselves. He’d made it through the first cycle without getting tossed in a locker, so he considered it a decent first week. Besides that, he’d already managed to acquire quite the pile of homework and absolutely no friends. He wasn’t sure why. He’d tried to talk to multiple people, but they had all given him the side-eye and formed their own little cliques. Drift vented and poked at his solidified energon. He really should refuel, but it just didn’t look good.

“Care if I sit?” A rough voice asked. Drift looked up. An orange and white frame, a fair bit larger than him stood on the other side of the table.

“Uh... no. Go ahead.” Drift responded, pulling the stuff he’d scattered in front of him to one side to make sure the other mech had a spot. 

“Thanks.” The other mech plopped down and wrinkled his olfactory at the energon. “See, this is why I bring my own midday energon.” He took a bite and grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like profanity under his breath. Drift sat there, glossa-tied.

“Why’d you sit with me?” He finally blurted out. The other mech looked up and raised an optic ridge.

“Because you had books scattered and looked like the type that wouldn’t bother me while I ate.” He responded, before looking pointedly back at his meal and taking another bite, the effect of which was somewhat ruined by his involuntary gagging on the half-warm congealed mass.

Drift didn’t know whether to smile or feel disappointed that he’d simply looked like a non-threatening target. Instead, he went back to his mech-watching. (Yes, the books were still there, and yes, Drift had been planning on studying, but had quickly found watching others far more interesting, even if none of them wanted to talk to him).

Fifteen breems later, the odd orange-and-white mech had choked down as much as he could and packed up to leave, barely nodding at Drift as he went. Drift vented again when he did and packed his own things up. No use sitting around. He dumped the rest of his barely-touched cube in the trash and walked back to his classroom.

The next few cycles didn’t go much better. In fact, it went a fair bit worse. Not only did he not see the orange-and-white mech again (which, even though it hadn’t been exactly friendly, it had been companionship), but a few mechs seemed no longer content to just ignore Drift, and instead decided to pick on him. They’d tripped him in the hall, in the cafeteria, called him names (usually to do with his height or his frame), and generally attempted to make his functioning a living Pit.

So, today, rather than go to the cafeteria and deal with everyone there, Drift took a left and headed to the library. He would just refuel when he got home. Slipping into the library, he found it pleasantly deserted and silent. Walking quietly towards the back end (where he wouldn’t be immediately seen by any new entries), Drift turned the corner to go towards the small two-mech table he’d found on a previous trip to the library, only to stop in his tracks when he saw it was occupied. The orange and white mech from a decaorn ago was sitting there, munching on a rust stick and reading a textbook. Drift took a step back, but bonked into a shelf, causing a displayed book to fall over. The other mech looked up as Drift set the book back upright.

“You finally figured out that the cafeteria sucks?” He asked, making Drift jump.

“I...yeah. Well, sort of.”

The other mech nodded. “You’re welcome to sit. Just don’t bother me.” He went back to his textbook.

Drift hesitated, but sat down. When he did, the other mech slid a rust stick across to him, never breaking his attention away from his book.

“Thanks.” He said, quietly.

“Said don’t bother me.”

Drift, wisely, chose not to say anything and instead pulled out his own textbook. The two sat there for the rest of the refueling period, the other mech occasionally sliding a piece of candy across to Drift. They didn’t acknowledge each other when they left.

But Drift came back the next orn. And the orn after that. He brought his own, proper lunch (since by this point it was clear that the other mech didn’t refuel properly), and if he happened to leave the bowl of metalberries or an untouched quarter of his sandwich where both of them could reach it, well, that was his business. So the two spent the majority of the first half of the year just sitting there, in the library, ignoring each other with as much energy as they could muster even as they shared their food and table with the other.

Then came the winter break. Drift found himself missing the odd companionship, and it occurred to him about halfway through that he didn’t actually know the other mech’s name. It hadn’t ever seemed...necessary, somehow. 

When school finally started back up, Drift returned to the library, only to find the other mech not there. He frowned and sat down at the table. Maybe the other mech was just running late. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, loser.” A sneer came from behind him and Drift swallowed, refusing to turn around. A clawed hand dug into his shoulder and twisted him around, forcing Drift to look at Starscream. “What are you doing here, hmm?”

“Getting tutoring from me.” A very familiar, cranky voice came from behind Drift, who turned his head to see the orange-and-white mech he’d been missing. “Speaking of which, do you still need help with chemistry? Otherwise, I’m going to free up your timeslot on the fifth orn.” The tone turned hard and pointed.

Starscream instantly released Drift. “Yes, of course. I...will see you then, Ratchet.” At which point Starscream turned and practically ran from the room, leaving a venting Drift and a vaguely annoyed Ratchet.

“Good riddance. He hurt you?” Ratchet asked, visually checking over Drift for any injuries.

“No. Ratchet?”

“That would be my name.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ratchet responded, sitting down. “Can’t let him hurt my study buddy. Besides, he and half the school need my help. Not worth it to annoy me.”

A smile formed on Drift’s face. “Drift.”

Ratchet looked at him with a raised optic ridge.

“My name. It’s Drift.”

“Drift.” Ratchet mused, pausing for a moment. “Drift?”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down and shut up.”

Drift just smiled more as he did so. At least some things hadn’t changed — though he almost fancied he saw Ratchet’s lips almost twitch up into a smile too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all need a Ratchet. 
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	10. Knock Out/Breakdown: Genie

“So you’re telling me that this lamp has a genie in it?” Breakdown raised an optical ridge at the seller, a little yellow and green minibot who nodded vigorously.

“It is! And I’ve only just managed to acquire it from a very dangerous…” the minibot launched into an increasingly improbable story of his journeys across the Rust Sea, through the islands to the west, to a far away land which no one but him had ever been to.

Breakdown rolled his optics. “How much?” He didn’t believe for one second it was anything other than an ordinary lamp, but it looked cool and would make a nice souvenir for his trip here to Kalis. Plus...it would maybe save another traveler getting trapped here at this stand. Or not. The mech probably had a dozen more stashed under the rug he sat on.

“Five hundred credits!”

“Fifty. It’s a lamp.”

“You insult me. Four-fifty.”

The two bargained for a bit until they came to the agreement of two hundred and twenty-one credits, which Breakdown still considered an okay price, and the seller seemed more than pleased with. The seller wrapped up the lamp in a soft mesh and handed it to Breakdown, who handed him the credits.

“Pleasure doing business with you! Come back anytime!” The seller waved until Breakdown disappeared into the crowd. Breakdown turned around when he was sure that the seller couldn’t see him anymore, and sure enough, another, practically identical lamp sat where this one had a few minutes ago. Breakdown rolled his optics again and, subspacing the lamp, continued through the marketplace, looking for any other interesting things. A small rug, pillow, and blanket later (and some energon treats that had looked delicious), Breakdown was back in his hotel room, starting to fall into recharge.

Breakdown returned home next orn, and once the rest of his things were settled, he started looking for places to put his new souvenirs. The rug went in his berthroom, right in front of the window that overlooked the city (he’d picked the apartment just for that reason, and he wanted to be able to sit there as he wrote), the pillow and blanket went on his sofa, and the lamp… Breakdown looked around for an empty shelf, but found none. Finally, he cleared off a place on top of his desk and set it there for the moment, pushing it so it wouldn’t be out of place. A little bit of the mesh that it had been wrapped in had gotten caught in the handle, so Breakdown pulled it out and worked the handle back and forth to make sure that it still worked before smiling and patting the lamp. 

“You may not be a magic lamp, but I wouldn’t want mesh caught in my joints either.” He chuckled.

“Oh, you would not believe how hard it is to get mesh out. Ooh, is that a Kalisian blanket?” A voice behind Breakdown spoke, making him whirl around, ready to defend himself. He bumped into the lamp as he did so, making it rattle. On his sofa was a red mech, currently burrowing himself as far into the blanket in question as possible, and grinning away. “Do be careful with my home.” 

“Who are you?” Breakdown asked, still on the defense. Not that anyone whose first instinct was to bury themselves in a blanket would probably be that dangerous.

“I’m Knock Out. Nice to meet you.” He stuck a hand out of his new blanket-fort, which Breakdown edged forwards to take, but then stopped. “Wait, the lamp is your home?”

Knock Out sighed. “Yes.”

“Which makes you the genie?”

“Yes.”

Breakdown narrowed his eyes and withdrew his hand. “That’s not possible.”

“And yet here I am.” Knock out’s hand was still there. Breakdown shook his head. 

“I’m not shaking your hand. You might try to switch places with me. I know the old stories.”

Knock Out sighed again and the hand disappeared. “Five thousand vorns. I’d really hoped those stories had been lost.” He admitted, burrowing just a bit further.

“Is that how long you’ve been in there?” Breakdown asked, settling near him, but far enough away so as not to touch.

“Yeah.” Knock Out replied. He looked away. “Slagged off the wrong mech. Turned out they knew just enough on how to trap a mech in a lamp. Also, I can’t do magic myself. I’m literally just immortally tied to a lamp so don’t bother asking for money or love or power or eternal happiness ‘cause I can’t give it to you.” Knock Out’s helm disappeared into the blanket. Breakdown reached out towards him and patted the blanket lump.

“We’ll figure this out.” He promised. The head reappeared.

“How?” Knock Out demanded. “Believe me, I’ve spent five thousand vorns trying to break this. The only way I’ve found is by shaking someone’s hand once they ‘know’ the lamp is my home, trapping them and freeing me.”

Breakdown nodded. “And I suspect asking the original caster to fix this is out of the question.”

“Deactivated less than a vorn after doing this.”

“So we look harder. Old records. Mechs with too much time and weird hobbies.”

Knock Out raised an optic ridge. “Most mechs just chuck me into the nearest bin once they realize I’m not helpful. Why are you helping?”

Breakdown shrugged. “I’m a writer. Not many friends. Don’t have much else to do with my time. And being immortal with no power must fragging suck.”

“It does.”

“So there’s your answer. First things first though...lunch?”

“I don’t have to refuel.”

“Can you?”

“Probably.”

“Then let’s find something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair bit shorter than normal today. This could probably be continued too...honestly, I could probably write a whole fic in this AU if I was inclined to do so.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	11. Jazz/Prowl: Office

Every orn, at the same time, Prowl walked into the office and sat down, ready to begin and complete his work as efficiently as possible. 

Every orn, he was, without fail, interrupted by the mech with the office next door to his.

“Hey, m’mech, can I borrow some datapads? I’ve run out.”

This orn was, apparently, no exception.

Prowl dragged his optics up from the datapad he was working on. “How did you run out?”

Jazz grimaced. “Sudden amounts of extra paperwork from the Prime.” 

Prowl hid his smirk (he’d casually mentioned to the Prime that the mech had plenty of time on his hands) and instead vented. “Very well. I would tell you where they are, but I know you are already aware.”

Jazz stuck his glossa out at the other mech, who chose to ignore it. Jazz collected a crate of the datapads from Prowl’s storage closet, and in no way kicked the door shut on his way out. Prowl cycled his optics and returned to his own paperwork.  _ Really. What a sparkling _ .

* * *

The next orn passed much the same, except this time it was a stylus.

“Mine broke, an’ th’ new one won’t get here for another two orns.” 

“Why did you not request more earlier?”

“I didnt’ think t’ do it.”

Prowl cycled his optics and handed Jazz two styluses. “I want them back when yours arrive.”

“Sure thing, m’mech.” Jazz sauntered out, and Prowl shook his helm.  _ Didn’t think to? Please. _

The orn after, it was a few datafolders.

“Ironhide wants these categorized an’ I never use them so I don’t have any.” Jazz hopped up onto Prowl’s desk, leaning over to look into Prowl’s open desk drawer.

“Jazz, remove yourself from my desk. I have asked you before not to sit there.” Prowl responded automatically as he reached into the desk to pull out the requested folders and handed them to Jazz without another comment.

Jazz just grinned and hopped off, waving as he went. Prowl vented and returned to work.

The orn after  _ that _ …

Actually, the orn after that was… unusually quiet. Prowl reached the end of his shift without a single interruption from the blue-visored mech. He smiled to himself. Evidently, the extra paperwork and frosty manner with which Prowl had greeted him each orn had worked. Jazz was finally bothering someone else. Prowl went into recharge a happy, happy mech. Well, as happy as he got, anyway.

The next two orns were equally as quiet. Prowl’s work had never been more efficient, his time more productive!

But...it felt,  _ off _ , somehow. Like interruptions to his orn were something that the universe had decreed should happen, something with a certain order to them, and so the fact that they  _ weren’t  _ happening concerned Prowl, causing his battle computer to begin spiraling out of control with possibilities such as his next-door neighbor being kidnapped or killed or… Prowl squared his shoulders. No. He wouldn’t spare another thought on Jazz.

But the next orn, when a figure dragged itself into Prowl’s office, Prowl spoke almost before he thought.

“Where have you been?” Prowl looked up, feeling more annoyed than normal ( _ but at what?  _ His processor asked), until he saw the state of the mech in front of him. Battered, dents around one optic (his visor was missing completely, revealing pale optics that seemed too sensitive to the already dim lighting), with numerous still-repairing injuries. Prowl stood up, doorwings flaring. “Jazz, for  _ Primus’ sake _ , where have you been?” 

“Business trip, so t’ speak.” Jazz gave Prowl a half-grin, only to wince. “Didn’t realize ya missed m’ cheery self that much.”

“I don’t. These past few orns have been peaceful. But why aren’t you in the hospital?” Prowl’s doorwings were twitching, only adding to his  <strike> worry </strike> <strike>/annoyance/</strike>aggravation with Jazz

Jazz shrugged, settling himself on Prowl’s desk. “Went there. Ratchet patched me up best he could. Wheeljack’s buildin’ m’ new visor. Could stay there or I could come here. And, honestly, m’mech, th’ hospital gives me chills.”

“Well, we agree on one thing, at least. You still look terrible.”

“Glad t’ know ya care.”

“I don’t.”

Jazz snorted, making him cough a little, vocalizer spitting static. Prowl huffed and walked over to the energon dispenser, filling two cubes and bringing one over. “Refuel.”

“Demandin’.”

“Unfortunately, you offlining from low fuel levels in my office would cause more paperwork.”

“Oh, so is tha’ all I’m worth? Paperwork?” Jazz glared at Prowl, drinking his cube anyway.

“I am sure you are a capable officer, however, you seem to spend more time here in my office than yours. I cannot fathom why, or how you get work done.”

Jazz set his cube down and stood, looking Prowl dead in the optics. “Maybe I spend so much time here ‘cause I like seeing ya.” He growled.

“Why? We’re not friends.”

“Maybe I  _ want _ to be yer friend.”

“Why?” Prowl repeated. Jazz hissed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe, for some  _ pit forsaken reason _ , I think yer attractive an’ interesting.” Jazz spat out.

Prowl froze. “You what?”

“Already said it once. Not going t’ say it again.” Jazz stalked towards the door. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Jazz—“ Prowl started to say, but it was too late. Jazz was out the door, leaving a very confused Praxian in the middle of the room. Processor still… well, processing, he sat back down to work, but found it impossible, staring at the same sentence for a solid ten breems. 

Venting in frustration, Prowl started organizing his desk. It was a calming task, and the process allowed his processor to work through Jazz’s odd visit until it stalled. 

Jazz thought he was interesting? Attractive? Why? Prowl spent several uncomfortable breems analyzing his feelings around that statement until his processor offered an equally uncomfortable solution to Prowl’s recent distress at Jazz’s going missing, to his  <strike> annoyance/not annoyance/resignation </strike> <strike>/</strike>expecting to be interrupted: Prowl  _ liked _ Jazz. Loud, slightly abrasive, hardly-acted-older-than-a-sparkling Jazz. His processor also helpfully supplied that Jazz  <strike> wasn’t bad looking </strike> was downright hot when he wasn’t beaten half to slag. Prowl grimaced and stood. 

Clearly, he needed to have a conversation with his neighbor. 

Walking the few steps from his office to Jazz’s, he didn’t bother knocking before going in. Primus knew Jazz had done it enough.

Jazz looked up from his desk, annoyance clearly written on his faceplates. “What do ya want? Come for yer desk supplies?” Jazz bit out. 

Prowl’s processor offered two responses. Respond verbally, which carried a 89% chance of escalating the situation to violence, or… oh. 

Well. 

That was interesting. 

Prowl, acting on both his processor’s  _ interesting _ suggestion and the impulses he rarely indulged, chose the second option, stomping forward, grabbed Jazz’s helm with his hands, and kissed him good and hard before letting him go.

Jazz stood there, momentarily stunned (not an easy thing to do, either. What Jazz knew and Prowl didn’t was that Jazz was a spy, saboteur, and assassin. Being caught off guard was a death sentence, and yet, Prowl had, in one move, caused Jazz to have a blue-screen rivaling that time he caught his roommates in college interfacing). 

Prowl vented. “When you’d like to talk, I’ll be in my office.” He turned to go, only to have Jazz grab his arm to stop him from going.

“I... think we need t’ talk now, Prowl.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'll be honest, I don't know what this is. Random thought of Jazz stealing Prowl's office supplies gone out of control, I guess.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	12. Ratchet/Drift: Fake Dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Neighbors. :)

Ratchet grimaced and rubbed his optics as he looked at the invitation that sat open on his desk. The annual Midwinter Ball (a charity event meant to raise funds for non-profits around the city) that the hospital hosted was coming up. Ratchet would have no problem with this, except for one thing: dates were an absolute must. So he had usually gotten out of it by taking an extra shift that covered the entire event, pretending to be charitable and long-suffering, letting “the young ones have their fun.” 

This year, though, there was a note from his boss at the bottom that just said:

_ Don’t you dare take the shift to cover this, Ratchet. _

There was a long-standing belief that the scariest mech in the hospital was Ratchet. Ratchet and his boss knew better. Knock Out could be nice when he wanted to be, but more often than not… Ratchet was too old to admit to having a shudder go down his spinal struts at the thought of the anger of the much younger mech. So he typed out an acceptance and leaned back, groaning.

A knock at his door disrupted his pity-party. He looked at the time. Oh. It would be Drift, coming over for dinner. Ever since the evening that Ratchet failed to get Drift completely overcharged (and the two had woken up with raging helmaches as a result), they’d made a regular dinner appointment at either Ratchet’s apartment or Drift’s, just as… friends? Neighbors? Ratchet didn’t really know what they were. Then a thought, a half-fuzzy memory of something Drift had once said went through his processor. 

No. That was a terrible, terrible idea. 

Ratchet went to open the door. Drift was leaning on the doorframe, a bottle of high-grade in hand.

“You willing to be my date for an evening?” Well. That was that. Ratchet immediately began planning his trip to the nearest smelting pit.

Drift, to his credit, just raised an optic ridge and moved past Ratchet, setting the high-grade down on the table. “You sure you’re not already overcharged?” He turned back around, searching Ratchet’s face for something. “Oh. No, you’re serious. Your aura is all…” Drift made a vague gesture with his hand. When Ratchet didn’t make a snarky comment on “auras not being real,” Drift knew something was very, very wrong. “Ratchet? You alright there?”

“No.” Ratchet tossed the invitation at Drift and went to go get their energon out of his cooler. “That.”

“Ah.” Drift scanned it. “It’s just a party, Ratchet.”

“And I’ve spent the past fifty vorns successfully skipping it. Dates are required, and, well, nobody wants to go with the cranky old medic.”

Drift just smiled. “I told you, Ratchet, all you have to do is ask.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “You say that now.” Ratchet took back the invitation and tossed it onto his desk again. “Let’s just ignore it for now.”

Drift shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

The two did exactly that, sitting on Ratchet’s couch and refuelling, arguing over the ideas of one of the new cults that had popped up on Cybertron in the past couple vorns. By the time Drift stood to leave, Ratchet was in a much better mood. As Drift walked out, he turned around. “So yeah. Let me know when that party is and I’ll put it on my calendar.”

Ratchet sighed. Right. “It’s in exactly three deca-orns.”

Drift nodded. “Alright. Pick me up around five?” Drift winked, making Ratchet snort.

“Don’t push your luck. See you later.” Ratchet shut the door in Drift’s face, making Drift laugh on the other side. 

“See ya, Ratchet.”

Three deca-orns later, Ratchet was, in fact, in front of Drift’s door, knocking. He’d forced himself into a detailing shop earlier that day to buff out all the little scratches that he acquired working in the hospital, and had even consented to using a higher-gloss finish than normal. Simple. Understated. Perfectly fine for a semi-formal event. He wouldn’t be winning any beauty awards, but then, he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken.

Drift opened the door, and Ratchet’s fans caught. Just a little.

Drift had clearly put extra time into his frame that day. Not a single scratch to be seen, his gloss practically reflected the light, and he’d had new paint put on, along with some temporary decals. Put simply, Ratchet hadn’t seen such a gorgeous mech in front of him for a long time. A _ very _ long time. He almost regretted that this wasn’t a real date, that they were just putting on a show for nosy mechs who were willing to give a lot of credits to good places to offset their personal spending. He held out his arm. Maybe it wasn’t strictly necessary at this point, but… he wanted to touch Drift. Ratchet set that feeling aside to be analyzed later.

“You look nice.” Ratchet managed.

Drift chuckled. “So do you.” He took Ratchet’s arm. “Well, let’s go feed the beast.”

Ratchet hid a smile.

Less than a joor later, they were at the party. It was already going full-swing, with mechs and femmes getting slightly buzzed, though the dancing was still classy. It was a ball, not a dance club, after all.

Knock Out practically glided up to Ratchet the second he entered. “So you were able to make it.” He purred, then noticed Drift. “And you found a date. See, Ratchet? It’s not so hard.”

Ratchet sighed. “You were waiting to make sure I came, weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I was.” Knock Out grinned. “And now that I’ve seen you, I can go enjoy myself. You,” he pointed to Ratchet, “If you leave before midnight, I’ll personally make sure you have the night shift for the rest of the vorn. Enjoy yourself, for once.” He winked and made his way back through the crowds, probably schmoozing as he went. Ratchet snorted.

“And that was my boss.”   
  


Drift just blinked. “He’s… something.”

“Slagging right.” Ratchet muttered, then turned to Drift. “Well, we’re stuck here for a few joors, pretending to be dates. What do you want to do?”

Drift grinned. “There’s food, high-grade, and dancing. We could always fit in a little bit of each to prove we’re here and then sit around, arguing about religion in government.”

Ratchet actually smiled, but it was gone as soon as it came. “Let’s do that.”

As they went through a in-sync checklist of pretending to be invested in the party, a few mechs and femmes wandered up to chat with them, or, as Ratchet muttered to Drift in a quiet moment, to be “turbo-crows looking for their evening’s entertainment.” Drift had snickered.

“They are just as shiny.”

Ratchet glanced down at Drift.  _ So are you _ , he thought. No, no. This was his  _ neighbor. _

Of course, most of the mechs and femmes were looking for info on when and where Ratchet and Drift had met, how long they’d been together, etc. The two had agreed to simply tell a variation of the truth -- they’d met over high-grade, spent the night together, and gone from there. It was just suggestive enough to be plausible, but vague enough that nobody pried for details. Never mind that the evening had not been suggestive in the slightest, unless one counted two very stupid older mechs slumped against each other in high-grade induced recharge, drooling on each other  _ suggestive _ .

Finally, midnight came around and the DJ announced one final dance of the night. Drift raised an optic ridge at Ratchet. “We need to do this one?”

Ratchet shook his head. “Not really.” He looked down at his highgrade. “...Unless you want to.” Drift had been so nice to come out with him, and they’d only done a couple dances. Ratchet may not be much of a dancer, but he knew Drift enjoyed it. And… well, maybe the high-grade had done some magic on his emotions, but he wanted to have Drift in his arms for a few more minutes this evening. Before it all had to go away again.

Drift stood, offering a hand to Ratchet. “Dance with me?”

Ratchet set aside his high-grade. “It would be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch it, Ratchet... your crankiness is slipping.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	13. Knock Out/Breakdown: Historical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humanformers, because while I COULD have done this in Cybertronian terms, I wanted that Jane Austen aesthetic. Also, it’s a lot shorter, as I just had no motivation or brains today. *shrug*

Breakdown sat in front of his window, looking out over the grounds of his estate. It had been a long summer, beautifully long. Now, unfortunately, it was time to go back to London, at least for part of the Season. He’d avoided it as long as possible, but it was edging into October, the leaves turning their goldens and oranges and reds. Breakdown loved the red ones, especially. He opened his window and reached out to the tree just to the left of it. His grandfather had had it planted there when he inherited the estate, and now the oak tree reached the second floor of the manor, where Breakdown’s room was. His grandfather had never disclosed why he’d had it planted in that particular location, or so close to the house, but Breakdown suspected it had had something to do with his grandmother, who had been a girl from the village. He smiled a little as he pulled one of the bright red leaves free from the tree, spinning it in his fingers before placing it in one of his books to press.

Soon, it would be time to go. The trunks were packed, the carriage being pulled around to begin the trip. Breakdown sighed again, shutting his window and latching it. Looking around once more, he picked up his small case of books and trudged out to the carriage. His servants waved him off, and he forced himself to smile for their sakes. They knew as well as he did that he hated the Season, but it would never do to show that.

The trip was as long and uneventful as always, the rain beginning just as he entered London. Figures, he thought. The perfect weather. His carriage rolled through the muddying roads until it reached his townhouse, where he and his luggage were quickly unloaded and ushered in to a warm towel and bath already drawn. Because of his late arrival to London, there was already a party to attend that evening, as much as he would prefer not to go.

Evening after evening of the same social dance and gossip later (who was courting whom, a broken engagement or two, one wedding of a friend he hadn’t seen in a few years), Breakdown are already thoroughly sick of the routine. He longed to go back to his horses and his books in the country. Alas, it was only two weeks into his stay and he needed to appear for at least two months. At Christmastime, perhaps, he could escape, and return in February or March. 

Tonight’s party, hosted by one Lord Megatron, promised to be just as boring as the rest. Still, Breakdown could hear his father’s voice in his head, reminding him that he needed to find a wife, and the Season was the best place to do that. So he dressed for the evening in his suit and tie, hat in hand, ready to stand in a corner and look more imposing than he felt.

For the first hour of the party, he did just that. He had a drink, offered by his host, and made sure that enough people saw him so that he would be known to have made an appearance. He watched the dancers. He checked his pocket-watch to see the time.

When he looked up, a woman, no older than seventeen -- likely a debutante -- was entering the room. Her fiery red hair was pinned up, a few curls cascading down, framing her face, which showed no signs of the cold outside. Her crimson dress matched her hair and accented every curve of her body as she surveyed the room with a small smirk that said that she knew she could have any man there.

Breakdown swallowed hard. How he wished his grandfather was here.

He had absolutely no idea how to ask this vision to dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I made Knock Out a girl for this one. Let’s be real -- he’d probably prefer the dresses of the Austen era to the suits. xD
> 
> See ya tomorrow (a prompt I have been alternately sniggering and aww-ing over for the past two weeks and CANNOT wait to write).
> 
> Also, I just noticed this hit 100 kudos -- thanks all for liking this so much! :)


	14. Jazz/Prowl: Author

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *snigger* I’ve been waiting thirteen days to write this one. Pretty sure it’s only second to the hermit crabs on my amusement scale. Mostly cause I hate airports and flying. Tumblr prompt: “Author of book gets seated next to someone reading their book on a flight and making entertaining faces at each scene.”

If Unicron was real, Prowl was fairly certain that he had created airport terminals. Perhaps it was the fact that one needed to get out of recharge earlier than anyone should be awake (and yet, the terminal would still be packed solid), perhaps it was checking ones bags ( _ This weighs a few kilograms too much, but another twenty credits will cover it _ ), perhaps it was randomly being dragged out of line for “alternative” screening ( _ I’m sorry, sir, your doorwings make it difficult to scan you normally _ ), or perhaps it was just the fact that the terminal seats were merely a preview of the next six to ten joors -- and, at least in the terminal, everyone tacitly left seats open on either side of themselves, all recognizing their shared pain through drooping optics and sagging limbs. 

Prowl vented hard as he looked for a relatively secluded chair, preferably one designed for doorwings. The only one was near another, equally uncomfortable Praxian, and so he decided on the lesser of two evils -- the possibility of social interactions which he did not want to engage in over two joors of being even more uncomfortable than necessary. 

Thankfully, the other Praxian was equally as tired as Prowl, and simply nodded in acknowledgement before offlining their optics again and letting their helm fall against the back of the chair. Prowl pulled out his datapad and stared at it for a few moments, trying to find the energy to put a few more words on it. The deadline for his next book was in just a couple deca-orns, and he still felt like the story was… lacking, somehow. Oh, the murder was completely solved, the plot had been resolved, but there was something missing. A sub-plot? Another mystery? A supporting character? He certainly had enough time to weave something else into the whole book if he figured out what it was in the next couple orns, but Prowl was at a loss. He vented again as he slid his pad away and offlined his own optics, setting his internal chronometer to wake him up in a joor and a couple breems, which should give him enough time to both get some hot energon and board as soon as possible, at which point he had full plans to recharge until the plane hit Iacon. 

Unfortunately, those plans were derailed when Prowl realized, over his hot energon, that he had forgotten his usual recharge supplement, and that the airport he was in didn’t sell any, at least in this terminal. He grimaced and resigned himself to being awake for the six hours of discomfort that accompanied a flight to Iacon, suddenly regretting his decision to make it a straight flight rather than a multi-stop with a layover that would allow him to get up and stretch his wings. The flight was boarding in the next five breems, however, and so his poor planning was simply going to have to be. 

On the plane itself, Prowl was extremely glad he had chosen to get a first-class seat. Wider, more comfortable on his wings, and generally worth the expense. Not to mention the fact that he only had one row-mate, who he was glad to note was a Polyhexian about his size, and so was unlikely to push his way into Prowl’s seat. Furthermore, the mech was already invested in a datapad, and so didn’t acknowledge Prowl’s entry to the row at all. Perhaps this flight could be gotten through with a minimum of discomfort after all.

The attendant came around to make sure all seats were upright, making the mech next to Prowl mutter a little. Prowl raised an optic ridge. He didn’t understand why the mech had already so obviously gotten comfortable when he would simply need to return his seat upright for takeoff. As the mech did so, however, Prowl noticed the back of the datapad. He wouldn’t have paid much attention to it beyond the passing curiosity of a writer who is about to spend six joors next to a complete stranger (after all, mech-watching is what gave him the idea for his first novel), except that he recognized the plating. He’d seen it more than once at book-signings across Cybertron. His book-signings. Prowl immediately glanced around the plane. No chance of changing seats. Too suspicious, anyways, and if the mech hadn’t noticed him yet, that would certainly draw his attention. Besides, Prowl was at least relatively comfortable now. No. Better to simply wait and hope that the mech didn’t recognize him in the next six joors.

The mech next to him seemed to have very little interest in him, however, and as soon as the plane was at cruising and he could get comfortable again, proceeded to recline his seat back to its previous angle and curl up, continuing to read. Prowl, while he had pulled out his datapad and pretended to be very interested in a book of his own, was watching the other out of the corner of his eye.

Admittedly, the mech was entertaining to watch. His face went from non-expression to utter horror to a smirk to restraining giggles in the span of a couple breems, and when he set the datapad on his tray to accept the warm energon with copper and lithium (a combination that Prowl admitted sounded rather good, though he stuck with cobalt) he had ordered from the attendant, Prowl had leaned over a little further than was strictly necessary to readjust his wings so that he could note where this stranger was in his book. It was just after the detective had brought in the first witness. Prowl went back over the book in his processor, remembering the major scenes and developments. Certainly, he had heard at his book signings that it had been “amazing” and “an emotional ride,” but he’d never seen anything that suggested either. The flight seemed a little more interesting already. Prowl leaned back, one optic on his datapad and the other on the stranger.

With an approximate estimation of how fast the mech read (based on the tapping to flip the pages), and that knowledge, he was able to gauge where the mech was. Sipping at his energon, he watched the mech’s jaw tremble just a bit before snorting. Probably the conjunx’s tear-wrenching story, undercut by the detective’s sidekick’s comments after they had left. More barely-restrained snickering. A twisted up, confused expression, quickly replaced by the proverbial lightbulb. The missing bag? No, definitely the energon knife hidden in the plant. As Prowl watched, he started to notice things about the mech. Not just his coloring, which was a classy black and white with blue and red highlights, or his blue visor, but little things. The way his hand twitched every now and then at certain parts, like he wanted to punch a witness in the face, or how he curled himself up with his energon, making the most of the small space he was forced into. He was actually a rather attractive mech, if Prowl thought about it objectively. But his faceplates were still the most expressive thing about him, and so Prowl kept watching.

This went on for most of the flight. It was well into the fifth joor when the mech put the datapad down on his tray, staring straight ahead and venting hard. So he’d just found out who the murderer was, then. Really, it had been a stroke of genius that had had Prowl make the murderer the sidekick all along. Someone close to the detective, someone he trusted, all because he needed to be tested. That was what had made Prowl write the second book in this particular series, the one he was now struggling to finish. He made his own face at his own datapad. What was missing?

“Mech, if ya haven’t read this book, ya need t’ do that.” Prowl actually jumped a little when the mech next to him spoke, blue visor fixed directly on him, still evidently in shock from the grand reveal.

Prowl coughed a little. “What book would that be?” His voice only wavered a little bit.

“Th’ Shadow in th’ Grave. It’s by a mech named Prowl. I…” The mech trailed off. “I actually can’t say anythin’ about this book. I just realized that. Man, Blaster is gonna be so slagged that I can’t tell him what it’s about.” He groaned.

Prowl forced his face to stay stoic, even though a smile threatened to force its way onto his face. “Is it really that complex?”

“Well, it’s more like there’s so many twists that th’ plot itself is a spoiler.” The other mech hesitated. “But it’s about this fraggin’ awesome detective, Goldburner, an’ then there’s Hailbird an’ Swiftwatch, his assistants, an' this totally twisted, gruesome murder. Primus. I’m really lookin’ forward to talkin’ with this mech.”

Prowl hid his cough in another sip of energon. “Why and when?”

The other mech grinned. “I know he’s a former Enforcer, an’ I’m in private security, an’ I didn’t see th’ twists coming. Thinkin’ about the beginnin’, I can totally see it, but while readin’? Nah. An’ it’s not like I’m on a plane for fun.” The other mech twisted up his face. “Prowl wasn’t comin’ t’ Polyhex, an’ I was workin’ durin’ his stop in Tyger Pax. So, Iacon it is.”

Prowl nodded. “Polyhex is a hard place to get stops for book tours in.” His processor caught up after his glossa and he winced.

The other mech vented, seemingly not thinking anything of Prowl’s slip. “Yer tellin’ me. No mech ever stops in Polyhex. Must be too far out o’ th’ way, I guess.” He held out a hand. “M’ designation’s Jazz, by the way.”

Prowl took it, thinking fast. Prowl wasn’t exactly an uncommon designation, but it wasn’t common either, and this mech already liked his work... “Pursuit.”

“Nice ta meet ya.” Jazz grinned, then looked back at his datapad. “I should probably finish th’ last couple o’ chapters before we land. Not sure I wanna.”

Prowl couldn’t keep the smile off his face this time. “I’ll be here if you need to rant.” 

Jazz chuckled. “Thanks, m’mech.”

Jazz did not need to rant after finishing the book, and Prowl found the last half a joor of the flight interesting, chatting about other, non-book related things, such as energon flavorings and Jazz’s time in private security. Prowl revealed that he’d been an Enforcer too, and Jazz asked about Prowl’s weirdest case. Prowl had had to think about it, and ended up telling Jazz about the femme who was absolutely certain that her twin had robbed a bank, only to find out that both of them had been commiting armed robbery at the same time on the opposite sides of the city. Jazz simply shook his helm, and responded with his own weird story about this mech who was so possessive of his prized mecha-cat that he hired Jazz’s team to guard it on its way to a show two cities over. Then the plane was landing, and the two went their separate ways. Prowl would be a little sad, but he knew that the mech would be showing up at his book-signing tomorrow.

Needless to say, Jazz’s reaction was worth keeping his name a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell how much I LOVE airports (at least American ones)? <_<.....>_> 
> 
> This is definitely-most-likely going to have a conclusion in a separate, non-AUgust thing, because I’ve already hit 2000 words and wanted to post this, but didn’t want to summarize the rest, because the fluff can be real.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	15. Ratchet/Drift: Reincarnation

_ Sometimes, love takes the long way ‘round. _

* * *

Survival

The sun was beginning to set, the two moons stretching and moving to take their places for the long night. 

The metal radiated its warmth to the mech trudging across its surface, through the high metal-rock formations that characterized this area.  Drift vented as he dragged the two fat turbo-bucks back towards camp. It had been a good day for hunting, even if he had had to go out on his own after half the warriors and hunters were injured during the mech-boar hunt. 

Well, he didn’t _have_ to, but he had refused to take Longstride, the other mech old (and still healthy) enough to hunt, as they needed someone to guard the camp. Drift was sure nobody expected him to come back at all, not with how dangerous this area was this time of the stellar-cycle. But he was only a few kliks away now, and he knew this extra food would help. Maybe...maybe the clan healer would even agree to mate with him this time.

Drift looked up at the stars that were just starting to show in the rapidly darkening sky and prayed to any deity that was listening for the courage to ask.

* * *

Tribute

Drift coughed as he was shoved to his knees and kicked, thrown in prison for the third time in his life. The first time, it had been a few cubes of energon to keep from starving. The second time, it had been for stepping too close to a passing warlord (who had then demanded Drift as a slave, after he served the requisite time in prison, as tribute, rather than destroying the whole village). This time, however, it was for trying to escape. He knew this time would be his last time. The third time, nobody left. It was the law. He would either be forgotten here, or executed tomorrow.

He hoped it was the latter. Starvation wasn’t a good way to go. He laid there, waiting. Joors passed, or maybe orns. There were no windows. Drift suspected he’d been forgotten. But the lock rattled, and Drift opened an optic to see who it was. An orange and white mech crept over to him. The palace medic. Drift smiled. He’d always liked the cranky mech. Perhaps he was here to execute him. The medic leaned down.

“Come on, kid. We’re getting out of here.”

Somehow, Drift believed him.   
  


* * *

Cold

Drift stood outside the cathedral, shivering as he tried to hand out flyers. They needed more people to come in to prove they were being helpful. Otherwise, the Council would shut down their mission here. It may be run by monks and cater to the homeless, but it was for anyone who needed help. Drift himself was a soldier, back on mandatory leave. He had no family, so the cathedral it was. The wind bit into his plating as he held out a flyer to a medic who had paused for a second to check a datapad. “Sir, would you be interested in coming in?” Drift asked. The other mech looked at him.

“Kid,  _ you _ need to get inside. Are you even healthy enough to be out in this weather?” The other mech looked concerned, checking over Drift’s threadbare wrap and his chattering denta.

Drift shook his head. “I’m fine.” He lied. Perhaps he should go in, but then who would be out here?   
  


“Kid, I’m coming in just to check you over. No mech should be shivering this much.” The other mech half-dragged Drift behind him into the cathedral. 

It was an odd feeling, being cared for.

* * *

Equinox

Drift forced himself to swagger as he walked down the street in the evening twilight, looking for anyone willing to pay for a good time. He didn’t want to use a dark alley to make a few credits, but the legitimate credits from cleaning up a construction site a few deca-orns ago had run out. Now, it was this or starve. His levels were already running low. He saw a mech stepping out of a building, a nice-looking orange and white mech. He stood there, looking out over the dark street, only lit by a few lamps, the only noises those of plastic bags turning over in the breeze. 

Drift sauntered up. “You want a little fun, mech?” He leaned against the wall, trying to show off his bumper to the best effect. The mech looked at him, frowning.

“You don’t want to do this, kid.” He said, softly, gruffly. “I know a pleasure-bot when I see one. They come through my clinic here. You’re not one of them.”

Drift forced himself to smile. “Maybe I am.”

The mech shook his head. “No. You’re desperate, and I’ve a floor that needs mopping. Come in, kid.”

Drift nearly cried.

* * *

Service

Drift looked up as Ratchet, his employer and master (and secret crush) walked past. He opened his mouth to greet him, but the mech ignored him, plopping onto his berth, helm in hands and muttering obscenities. Drift warred with himself, putting his professionalism into place before setting aside his polishing and walking over.

“Sir?”

“What?” Ratchet hissed out. His helm was still in his hands, but the profanity had stopped.

“Nothing, I… you just seem upset. That’s all, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir’ business, first of all. You’ve worked for me long enough.” Ratchet looked up. “Sit down and tell me something, Drift.”

“Yes, s...yes.” Drift stumbled as he perched next to Ratchet, uncomfortable.

“If you had the choice between giving up your work, or annoying everyone in your family, which would you choose?”

Drift hesitated, his natural good humor starting to poke through his carefully-crafted professionalism. “I suppose it would depend on how much I cared about the opinions of my family. Are they intelligent, or idiots?”

Ratchet snorted. “How eloquent. Thanks, Drift.” He leaned over, giving Drift a kiss on the cheek before freezing, realizing what he’d done. Drift touched his cheek, then smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

War

The shells exploded overhead as they tried to stay as low as possible, no mech there wanting to get his helm blown off from a stray fragment or a good sniper. Drift made his way quickly through the makeshift trench to the dugout where Ratchet, their field medic, was rapidly looking through his supplies, muttering. Drift barely dodged the wrench that came his way as he stepped in. Ratchet didn’t apologize as Drift handed it back. “Thought our line was broken.” He muttered. Drift shook his helm as he looked around, making sure nobody else was in the dugout or in viewing range before he stood on tiptoe to give Ratchet a quick kiss. Ratchet returned it, the two breaking away quickly before anyone else could happen to see them.

“No, but it’s not looking good. We haven’t gotten the order to attack yet, but…” Drift hesitated. “Ratchet, if we make it out of this alive--”

“When. When, kid.”

“When we make it out… do you want to…”

“Spit it out.”

“Do you want to get a place in Iacon? Together?”

“Or Polyhex.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yeah, kid. That’s a yes.”

The whistle called for a charge.

* * *

Familiar

The two mechs laid there, relaxing in each other’s arms as they watched the window for the first signs of day. Neither had slept, waiting for the news of another conflict, for the first signs that would tell them to run far, far away. Ratchet’s hand traced lazy circles on Drift’s shoulder, a motion that neither really registered, but comforted them nonetheless. Drift’s head was tucked into the curve between Ratchet’s shoulder and neck. The two had been generally silent, waiting for morning. Drift tilted his head to look up at the medic.

“Ratchet?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Just did.”

Drift cycled his optics, and Ratchet smiled, his voice softer and fonder than normal.

“Yeah. You can.”

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Ratchet sighed. “Kid, there’s a lot of weird slag I’ve had to accept with you around. But I’ve never seen a spark come back.”

“But do you think it’s possible? That two sparks can find each other over and over?”

Ratchet paused, gazing at Drift for a moment before kissing him. “...I almost hope so.” He admitted.

No more words. The sun was beginning to rise, the moons sleepily drifting toward the horizon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a bit of an experiment, since AUgust has really been me trying out ideas and ways of writing. So not only did I have the daily prompt, I found words to prompt the times they find each other (at least the ones we see). Any thoughts? It’s up to you whether they live happily ever after the first six times… I don’t know that they do.
> 
> See ya tomorrow.


	16. Knock Out/Breakdown: Childhood Friends

Knock Out peered over the top of the hedge that separated his house from the neighbor’s. Someone had just moved in, but Carrier had told him not to go over there, just in case they were scary. Knock Out didn’t really understand, and had tried to say so, but Sire had thumped him on the head and told him to listen to Carrier. Then Carrier had sent him outside, and so here Knock Out was. Bored, hungry, and watching the neighbor’s house to see if they really were scary or not. He didn’t pay much attention to Carrier and Sire’s voices coming from the house. The neighbors were more interesting than a couple of grown-ups arguing over something.

As he watched, a blue mechling around his age came around the side of the house and plopped down in the shade of the big tree that was just on Knock Out’s side of the hedge. Knock Out dropped down from his clinging to the hedge and, looking around, climbed up the tree instead. It was a nice, big tree, the kind with lots of thick leaves at the bottom and around the edges, but once you were in it, it was like a treehouse, with lots of big branches spaced in a good way for climbing and sitting around comfortably in. Knock Out had snuck a few pieces of scrap metal up there at some point, making a relatively sturdy platform instead of just branches. He was pretty sure Sire and Carrier didn’t know, which made it all the better. He crawled across to where he could look at the other mechling without being seen himself, unless you managed to look in just the right way and knew what you were looking for. He laid on his stomach and watched the mechling.

He was sorting through GearBots trading cards, which Knock Out also had, making it all the more interesting. He didn’t have quite the collection this mechling seemed to have, but he was still pretty proud of it. Knock Out glanced at the old rusty (but still leak-proof) chest he had pushed up into the tree at one point that held his favorite things that he didn’t want his Sire finding, like his trading cards. He really wanted to play with someone, he realized. Having them and knowing they were good were two very different things. Then, Carrier had said the neighbors might be scary. But what could be scary about a blue mechling probably about Knock Out’s age, even if he was twice as big? So Knock Out decided to act on the impulses that have both landed mechlings in the hospital or with their future spouse (or sometimes both), depending on the whims of Primus and fate that day.

“Psst.” Knock Out hissed, and the other mechling looked around, unable to figure out where the whisper had come from. Knock Out cycled his optics. “Above you, nitwit.”

The other mechling looked up, still unable to find Knock Out. Sighing, Knock Out swung from his knees, popping his helm through the branches below and making the other mechling jump.

“Who are you?”

“Knock Out. I live next door.”

“Breakdown.”

“Want to play?”

“Uh, sure?” Breakdown looked up. “How did you get up there?”

Knock Out shrugged. “Tree’s on my side.” He frowned for a moment. “I think there’s a break in the hedge right over there you could probably crawl through.” He pointed to the left. “Oh yeah, bring your cards.” He added as an afterthought. Breakdown glanced back at his house, then nodded and gathered up his stuff, looking for the break Knock Out had mentioned. He found it, and proved rather adept at climbing the tree (mostly as he was taller than Knock Out, and so was able to grab the branches easier, rather than having to shimmy up the truck like Knock Out did). Now, the two mechlings were sitting across from each other.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Knock Out pulled out his cards. “Let’s play.”

Breakdown, despite being taken a little aback at the bluntness of the mechling across from him, didn’t really have a problem with doing that, and so the two of them played until dinnertime, at which point they both heard their Carriers calling. They looked each other in the optics, and in that moment decided that they were friends, as mechlings do. Knock Out reached his hand over.

“Come back tomorrow?” He asked.

Breakdown took it. “Yeah.” He thought. “I think Carrier is baking tomorrow. I can bring energon treats? Maybe?”

“Definitely.” Knock Out grinned at him, and Breakdown gathered up his cards to drop down on his side of the fence. Eventually, they would put in a rope ladder, and spend all night in the tree, and find something more special than trading cards in their own private little hideaway, but that was all in the future. Right now, they were just mechlings in need of a friend, and energon treats were still more important than the big questions of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have much to say about this one, actually. Wrote a different version, hated it, scrapped it, wrote this. So... see ya tomorrow.


	17. Jazz/Prowl: Hero/Villain

Jazz crouched on the edge of the building, visor fixed on the horizon rather than the several hundred foot drop beneath him. Visor tinted red rather than his usual blue, and plating turned entirely black, he was ready for whatever would happen tonight. His comm line beeped. Jazz checked who was calling. It was Prowl.

“What’s up, Prowler?”

“I was wondering whether you would be home tonight. Or are you on patrol?”

“Patrol.” Jazz forced a regretful note into his voice. He genuinely hated lying to Prowl, but he knew it was to keep him safe. Can’t betray what you don’t know, Jazz reasoned. “I should be home in a few joors, though. Mech supposed t’ be out had a sick sparklin’ an’ had t’ wait for their conjunx t’ get home, but they’ll do th’ second half o’ their shift.”

“Very well. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Love ya, Prowler.”

“Love you too.” Prowl hung up then, and Jazz vented, shaking out his plating and refocusing.

He didn’t have to wait for long. Less than five breems later, three buildings across the city simultaneously caught on fire, the smoke pillars rising into the sky. Jazz ignored them. Perhaps not the heroic action, but he had a bigger catch. He scanned the three locations, comparing them to the map of the city on his HUD. For three explosions, the controller would have to be within range of each of them, at an approximately equal distance. Jazz’s HUD updated with the new info, giving him a single location, the Praxus Electric building.

Jazz jumped.

As the ground grew close, Jazz fired the grappling hook that hid just under his left hand, catching his fall and slowing him just enough on his upswing that he could retract it and transform into his alt mode, speeding towards his destination. As he sent pings to the fire departments, alerting them to the fires -- though he had no doubt they were already on it -- he could feel the air rushing by, the metal sticking to his tires as he wove through what little traffic was out at this joor. It took him less than three breems to reach Praxus Electric, and he magnetized his hands as he rolled out of his transformation and launched himself at the building, climbing up as fast as possible. He’d been doing this so long that what seemed an impossible feat was simply a matter of course, and he was at the top of the twenty-story building in a matter of klicks.

He was still standing there, watching his chaos. Cervo. Jazz didn’t bother to sneak. He knew that Cervo already knew he was there.

“So you figured it out.” Cervo’s voice was deep, gritty, his pure white plating flashing in the moonlight, doorwings flicking up and down in pleasure.

“Always do, Cervo.” Jazz sauntered up, pausing just behind the other mech. “So how are we going t’ do this tonight? Want t’ come along t’ prison quiet-like? I’ve got a nice, warm berth waiting for me an’ I’d like t’ see it tonight.”

“You know I can’t do that. This city… it needs this.”

“Needs its buildings destroyed?” Jazz raised an optic ridge, bracing himself for a monologue. He’d grab Cervo in the middle of it.

“Needs chaos. Order comes from chaos. New laws get passed. New programs. Mechs find purpose in chaos. I’m doing good work here.” Cervo moved to the edge of the roof and sat down, swinging his pedes. “You should understand that, Meister. You exist because of me.”

Jazz vented and moved forwards, sitting on the edge next to Cervo as they watched the smoke pillars. So it wasn’t a monologue evening then. New plan. “So what will burning these buildings do for th’ city? Make debt? Make mechs homeless?”

Cervo shook his helm, doorwings drooping. “I am certain you know what buildings they were. Who had businesses there.”

“One was th’ cafe over on Hallow, one was an office buildin’ on Jarh, and th’ other…” Jazz checked his HUD. “A warehouse on Dock?”

“What you do not know was that all three were covers for drug trafficking.” Cervo replied, mildly. Jazz frowned.

“So? When do ya care about drugs?”

  
  
“Despite what you think, I am not the villain here. Your Enforcers are. Were you aware that they knew about the drugs, but refused to move on it after much of the drug department was paid off to ignore it?”

Jazz’s vocalizer froze, and he had to do a hard reset. “They what?” Jazz’s voice was harsh. Then a thought occured to him. “Th’ police commish?”

“He’s clean.” Cervo handed a dataslug to Jazz. “If you are interested in fixing the real problem in the city, the list of dirty Enforcers is on there, as well as a couple other tidbits.” Cervo stood up. “Now, are we done here for the evening, or must we go through the whole song-and-dance, Meister?”

Jazz stared at the slug before subspacing it and standing to face the other mech. “We’re done, Cervo. For tonight.” Jazz looked the other mech in his red optics. “But this doesn’t cover yer other crimes.”

Cervo smirked, doorwings twitching. “I didn’t think so.” Cervo mock-bowed. “Have a lovely evening, Meister.” He turned and strode away, Jazz’s hand twitching as he resisted the urge to punch the other mech in the face. He moved to pull a pair of cuffs from his subspace, but Cervo turned around before he could. Then his visor fritzed out and he collapsed to the ground, electricity sparking from his frame. He knew a temporary stun pulse when he felt one, but slag if it didn’t hurt. He heard Cervo’s laugh.

“Sorry, Meister. Insurance that you won’t follow me. See you another orn.”

Jazz gritted his denta and waited out the stun. It only lasted a few klicks, and Jazz forced himself back to his pedes at the end of it. Cervo was gone, who knew for how long, but at least Jazz had a task for the meantime. He plugged the dataslug into his systems to begin downloading its info to his HUD, running every megabyte through his firewalls and virus protection, just in case. 

Jazz magnetized his hands and slid down the building, slowing his descent just enough to jump off and transform a couple stories from the bottom. He drove much slower on his way home, stopping in an alley a few blocks away to transform his colors back to normal and re-tint his visor to blue. As he moved to step out, however, the data finished its download and popped up. Jazz flipped through it quickly, but stopped at two particular names, his spark dropping when he saw them. He transformed and rolled back home, opening the door as quietly as possible, just in case Prowl was already in recharge. He stopped in the berthroom door long enough to gaze at his sleeping conjunx, doorwings relaxed only in his deep recharge, before climbing in next to him and kissing the top of his helm. Prowl stirred and turned over, facing Jazz.

“Back already?”

“Mech got there earlier than he expected.” He kissed Prowl on the lips this time. “Go back t’ recharge, Prowler.”

Prowl went back into recharge almost instantly, but Jazz laid awake for awhile, simply watching Prowl, spark heavy with guilt.

How would he tell Prowl that his brother and his partner were both corrupt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, yes, Cervo is Prowl. No, neither of them know that they're running around after the other. *eyeroll* Dorks.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	18. Ratchet/Drift: Assassins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This fic is a fair bit darker than the previous ones, at least in my opinion. Light gore, highly questionable morals, child trafficking and an (implied) seriously unhealthy relationship. Stay okay, everyone.

Deadlock engaged his silencing mods to keep his pedes from making noise on the polished glass floor as he slipped along the edges of the room, sticking to the shadows. Sword drawn, night-vision engaged, this had been an exceptionally easy target so far. Only one guard downstairs, already in recharge at his post. Deadlock kept the request details up on his HUD as he made his way toward the target’s berthroom. A businessmech from Praxus, he was involved in the kidnapping and trafficking of mechs and femmes, still in their second upgrades. As Enforcers closed in on a few possible ringleaders, Deadlock had done his own research, looking for the mech himself before a Senator had had his Creation taken and had found the back channels he needed to hire Deadlock. His mission was to find the mech, and (unusually) for his profession, find the femme and get her back to her Sire, still online. Deadlock had known that the femme had been taken, and already knew that the femme, unusually pretty for her age, had been taken by this mech as a…. _ personal _ aquisition.

Really, it had been a pleasure to take this job. Sometimes it was just an unhappy conjunx with a bonding contract they needed out of (or a cheating conjunx), sometimes it was a mech who had gotten too close to something illegal, and sometimes it was just a drug dealer who Deadlock felt like offlining and then turned into the Enforcers for the bounty. Deadlock didn’t really care. Anything was better than going back to the streets of Polyhex, back to the prostitution and Syk and filth that he had lived in before he realized that offlining a mech was easier than the holo-vids made it out to be. It was almost nice, seeing that terror when a mech knew what they had done and why Deadlock had come for them, and since no mech who saw Deadlock lived, he’d been elevated to an urban legend by now. 

Mech of the Night. 

The Lonely Assassin. 

Blade of Primus. 

All names he had been called. The Enforcers had a scant file on him, without a picture, with only a list of suspected contracts. Deadlock had seen it when they’d pulled him in for questioning one time when he was in his civilian paint. Wrong place, wrong time. Hadn’t even been his own contract. He’d had a legitimate alibi (after all, being caught on camera at the convenience mart in the wee joors buying krypton-filled donuts, liquid gold and over-the-counter painkillers was a pretty good, if pathetic excuse), and he was very careful to cultivate  _ illegitimate _ alibis for all of his contracts. Really, it was impressive what a femme or mech would say if you paid them enough.

He didn’t know who else was cleaning up the higher echelons of society, but he didn’t really mind. Actually, if he ever came across the mech or femme, he might just kiss them rather than kill them. They’d ended a mech who was putting trace amounts of Syk in sparkling formula. They’d earned one free look at Deadlock. 

Now, he was at the door of the mech’s berthroom. It was slightly ajar, and Deadlock pushed it open slowly, quietly. There was another mech standing over the rapidly-greying businessmech, and the femme in question was lying at the foot of the berth, chained to the wall, but still in recharge. Deadlock lifted his sword and put it against the back of the mech’s neck.

“Turn around, slowly, if you don’t want all your energon lines cut.”

“That would be difficult, from that angle.” A rough voice met him. “And really, if you’re here, you’re not an Enforcer. Such behavior doesn’t suit our kind.”

Deadlock smirked. “Ah. So are you the other mech I’ve heard so much about? The Doctor of Doom? Kills his patients and his targets with quiet efficiency and class?”

“Patients? No. Just a few mechs that deserve nothing better. And believe me, there’s nothing painless or classy about a Syk overdose.”

Deadlock pressed his sword a little harder. “Syk?”

“He gave some to the femme over there to calm her down. It was justice. I gave her a sedative so she can sleep off the withdrawals.” The mech gestured to her. “I have no interest in her, just this one. But if you know where she belongs, be my guest.”

Deadlock released the pressure on the sword. “Then turn around and let me see you. And him.”

The mech turned. Deadlock eyed him appreciatively. He’d always had a thing for medic frames, and this one was no exception. Black and orange, his blue optics stood out against his plating like beacons. Deadlock could appreciate the effect, if someone were to turn in a dark room, or wake to those over them. He shivered a little as he imagined them over him, in activities no less violent, but with less chance of offlining permanently. He did have a nagging feeling that he should know this mech, though. But the memory wasn’t coming to mind, so Deadlock ignored it for now.

“So do you have a name?”

“Not one I’m going to give.” The mech retorted, and Deadlock smirked.

“Smart.” He kept optic contact as he ran the gray mech on the berth through, using his rapidly congealing energon to paint two glyphs on the wall, one his personal signature, and the other one denoting someone advanced in the medical field. Death and the Doctor. The other mech made a face.

“So messy.”

“But it’s got style, like a mech I once knew.” Deadlock wiped his blade off on the offline mech’s plating and let it dangle from his hand, admiring his work. “We can both take credit for this. I’ll take the kid though. That’s half my pay.”

The other mech shrugged. “As I said, suit yourself. This was a personal job, not a contract.” He turned to go, but Deadlock caught his arm.

“Not so fast, Doctor.” He spun the mech around and pressed him against the wall, keeping the other mech’s one arm pressed above their head. He leaned in and roughly captured the other mech’s lips with his own, running his glossa along the other mech’s once he opened his mouth, not bothering to restrain the other mech’s other hand when it started running down his back and over his hip, and when the other mech spun him around and reversed their positions, Deadlock had no objection, even with both arms trapped above his head, his sword like a deadly, sharp mistletoe. They broke away after a few more kliks, fans and frames running hot. Deadlock smirked again.

“Maybe we should work together more often. Or, in other words, as soon as I drop the kid where she goes.”

“Maybe we should.” The other mech ran a hand across Deadlock’s chest, making his engine rev again. “You can find me at the old clinic down in the Dead End. I suspect you know exactly where it is. Don’t use the front door.”

Ah. So that’s who he was. Interesting. “Whatever you say,  _ Ratchet _ .” Deadlock tweaked a cable in the other mech’s hip, earning a rev of his own. He swung his sword at the chain on the wall, shattering it. He sheathed his sword and picked up the femme, cradling her in his arms, checking her for injuries. When he looked up, Ratchet was gone.

Ah, well. Sooner he got this femme to the Enforcers to be taken back to Iacon, the faster he could get down to the Dead End, and to a warm berth with good company for the night. And maybe longer. 

Until he was done playing, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you had to skip the chapter and just wanted to see my personal notes, the only amusing (to me, at least) bit in all this is Drift out buying the Cybertronian equivalent of custard-filled donuts, chocolate milk, and ibuprofen at 2am, ‘cause it be like that sometimes.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	19. Knock Out/Breakdown: Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exciting conclusion (probably) of Secret Agents.

Despite his best efforts, Breakdown had been unsuccessful in finding Knock Out after their little run-in, now a couple vorns past. He’d run inquiries about a cherry-red freelancer through his private contacts and channels, but while a couple mechs had heard rumors about the freelancer, nobody knew how to get in touch with him. After the first vorn, Breakdown had grudgingly accepted that the mech was nowhere to be found, even if Breakdown was finding traces of the mech’s work at a few different places that he had to infiltrate himself. He was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost.

So when a rumor came down the chain that a cherry-red mech had been seen fleeing the scene of what turned out to be both grand larceny and a murder, well, Breakdown decided to call in a couple favors and get himself assigned to hunting down the mech responsible. Now, looking around the scene of the crimes, he could see Knock Out’s style in the scenes of the theft, but the murder had been far more brutal than the mech seemed capable of. Besides, he’d never killed before this. 

Mechs assumed Breakdown wasn’t terribly clever. The truth was more that Breakdown was methodical, and relied on his experience rather than intuition. So with his vorns of experience, Breakdown started looking for the signs of a second mech, retracing what seemed to be Knock Out’s movements. From the window (with a single claw mark by the latch) to the berthroom door (there were paint smudges from the chair carefully placed under the knob, just in case), from there to the safe (the safe door had been surgically removed by the hinges), from the safe to the berthroom door (there wasn’t a chair there now, obviously), then back out the window (it had been closed when the Enforcers arrived). If he was right, then Knock Out should never have entered the berthroom.

Breakdown looked around again, ignoring Knock Out’s traces. The other mech had come through the door, maybe even been invited in (otherwise, there would be a lot more damage). Straight to the berthroom. Out that window (which was still open). He pulled up the files based on when Knock Out was seen leaving and when the coroner said the mech was offlined. A joor. Knock Out was seen leaving a joor after the mech was killed. Breakdown raised an optic ridge. There was no way he would’ve stuck around that long and then left a window open. That was sloppy. And they thought he had done it? Well, pin the blame on the visible one seemed to be the name of the game tonight. 

Still, Breakdown needed to find Knock Out and find out if he’d seen or heard anything while he was here. And that started with the fences around town. Knock Out may be involved in the occasional bit of corporate espionage, but it seemed that he was, first and foremost, a professional thief interested in identity theft. So, Breakdown pulled up the list of what had been in the safe. According to the victim’s mechservant, it was a few jewels, some credits, and… ah, some “highly personal documents.” Breakdown smiled. There it was. And there were only a couple mechs in the city who would deal in such documents, and knew where to put them to legitimize an Unlisted. 

In the next few decaorns, slowly, with not much fanfare, another Firestar of Polyhex would come into existence. But that was none of Breakdown’s business, and he really didn’t care.

Right now, he slipped out the open window with all his info, and a list of mechs to visit next orn. He rolled quietly back to his habsuite, punching in his keycode and stepping through. The second he had the door shut, however, something in the air changed and he turned around, drawing his sidearm in just enough time to have it knocked from his hand, clattering somewhere off to the side as a much smaller mech somehow pinned him to the wall, practically flattening himself across Breakdown’s chassis in order to pin his hands to the wall on either side of him.

“Ready for that round two, Impound? Or should I say, _ Breakdown _ ?” A voice purred in the darkness, bright red optics shining.

Breakdown sighed and let his helm drop back against the wall. “Knock Out.”

“The one and the only.” Knock Out released Breakdown’s hands and stepped back a few paces. Breakdown rubbed his wrists. For such a tiny mech, Knock Out had quite the grip.

“What are you doing here? You realize my organization wants you for a murder and theft?” Breakdown flipped on the hall light, bathing them in a soft yellow glow. He jerked his helm in a ‘follow me’ gesture as he walked towards his kitchen. Might as well discuss this over energon.

“I also know that you’re in charge of the case.” Knock Out followed close behind him. “And I’d rather like to plead my innocence in the murder.”

“Not the theft?” A soft laugh broke out of Breakdown.

“You know me better than that, darling.”

“Apparently not.” A thought occurred to Breakdown as he handed Knock Out a cube, who mumbled a soft thanks at the small gesture of trust. “How did you find me?”

“I have my ways. In this case, a tracker under your back cables.”

Breakdown’s optics went wide and his hand went to his back, feeling around. Knock Out waved his hand dismissively.

“Believe me, it’s long gone. Even_ I_ didn’t need to track you for two vorns. I remotely detached it after a few orns, at most. Probably fell off in the street during a transformation sequence and dissolved in the first acid rain.”

“When did you manage to put a tracker on me?” Breakdown searched through the memories of their first encounter, and… oh. Right. Kissing. Wandering hands that he hadn’t bothered to restrain. His faceplates went violently blue as he thought about those few kliks. Knock Out smirked.

“Am I really so forgettable?”

“No. I…” Breakdown stuttered and faltered, refusing to make eye-contact with Knock Out, who slid off the stool he’d made himself at home on and sauntered toward Breakdown, who backed up until his back hit the wall. He tried to refocus. “You still haven’t told me why you didn’t commit the murder.”

Knock Out stopped short and sighed. “Right. That.” He gestured vaguely. “I’m a thief, not a killer. But I can tell you, there was another mech there. A very loud mech. Or maybe poor old Firestar was the loud one.” Knock Out winked, waiting for Breakdown to make the connection.

“Oh. _ Oh _ .” Well, that was… not inconsistent with how the place had been found. “So they were…”

“Interfacing. Loudly. Made a good cover for theft, though.” Knock Out grinned.

Breakdown just stared. “Do you not have any shame?” He blurted out.

“Mmm, not really.” Knock Out shrugged.

“So you didn’t see the other mech?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You  _ didn’t _ .”

“Oh, I did.” Knock Out smirked as he pulled out a dataslug. “Want the sordid details?”

Breakdown sighed and rubbed his optics. “What do you want for them?”

“Immunity from this particular crime. And… maybe something else.”

  
  
“Something else?”

“I think we were rather rudely interrupted last time.”

“You ended it.”

“Well, I wanted to be paid. But now, I’m a free mech until morning. So what do you say?”

Breakdown thought fast. He really shouldn’t get distracted by Knock Out, especially if this information panned out. But if it didn’t, he’d have to put Knock Out away, and prison wasn’t a great place to be carrying on a… _fraternization_. If it _did_… well, Knock Out was still a criminal involved in this case. But if he offered him immunity, then he technically was just a witness, which wasn’t much better. This was a bad decision of epic proportions, and the only solution Breakdown could come up with was a bad one. 

But it was oh so tempting. And the temptation won out.

“It would be unethical to interface for information.” He started.

Knock Out snorted. “Really? Because I think several of your coworkers would disagree.”

“But I’ll give you the immunity.” Breakdown finished, ignoring the interruption. “Trust me?”

Knock Out sighed. “Hardly. But fine.” He slapped the dataslug down into Breakdown’s hand, and turned to go. Breakdown subspaced it and let Knock Out get a few steps away.

“I didn’t say no.” Breakdown leaned back against the wall. Knock Out stopped and turned back, a smile on his face.

“Oh, darling, you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.”

“I didn’t agree, either.”

Knock Out threw up his hands, visibly exasperated. “Then what the frag are you saying? Giving off some mixed signals here.”

Breakdown stepped forwards, moving so Knock Out was the one pinned to the wall. “Really? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Kissing me, apparently tracking me, but not bothering to show back up until you want something?”

Knock Out smirked, annoyance gone. “Well, if I’d known that frustration made you like this, I would have shown up a lot sooner.” Knock Out yelped as Breakdown hoisted him up with one hand under his aft, the other coming up his back as he moved them towards his berthroom, but recovered quickly and wrapped his arms around Breakdown’s neck, who leaned his mouth down by Knock Out’s audial.

  
“You have  _ no idea _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spicy. ;)
> 
> See ya tomorrow.


	20. Jazz/Prowl: Roommates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, and how are you? It’s a short continuation of College: Return of the Hermit Crabs!

“Where are you going to put their new tank?” Prowl asked Jazz as the two of them started unpacking boxes in their brand-new shared apartment. While their friendship had started off rocky (re: Jazz’s crabs), and while the arguments hadn’t really stopped (Jazz was still a little loose with the university regulations, but always took responsibility when an inspection threatened Prowl’s job), they’d quickly become accustomed to each other. More than accustomed, really, since Jazz had spent the night on Prowl's floor more than once when his roommate was involved in... amorous activities. It was about midway through the year during one of those occasions that they’d realized they both wanted to stay in the city after graduation from university that summer, and so they’d agreed that living together and splitting rent would probably be easier than not. So, here they were, in a two-berthroom apartment in the middle of Iacon, unpacking boxes. Jazz looked around and shrugged.

“Probably keep ‘em in m’ room. Quieter.”

“Hardly.” Prowl’s doorwings flicked in amusement. “I recall having to issue a noise warning more than once.”

“Twice. Twice, m’mech. An’ one time was Blaster.”

“Mmm.” Prowl’s doorwing twitched again and he turned to the rest of the boxes. “How do two university students accumulate this much stuff? Or perhaps the more accurate question would be how did  _ you _ accumulate this much?”

“Oi! I don’t have  _ that _ much. I mean…” Jazz looked through the labels on the boxes, grinning ruefully when he could only find one with Prowl’s name on it for every three or four of his. “Y’ might have a point.”

“Always.” Prowl picked up one of his boxes. “Would you prefer the right room or the left?”

Jazz followed Prowl, sticking his head in the left-hand room, then the right, seeing what views were available. He hadn’t been in the apartment before today, Prowl having been the one to check it out and send Jazz the relevant details. Which did not include the merits of certain window-views.

“Left. Got th’ park in view.”

“Very well.” Prowl set his stuff on the bed in the right-hand room, and began methodically unpacking it. Jazz wandered in and out, sometimes just watching Prowl, sometimes unpacking things in the main living spaces, sometimes unpacking his own things. 

Prowl simply sighed after a joor or so of this random behavior. “Jazz, it would be more efficient if you were to unpack one part of the apartment at a time.”

“But where’s th’ fun in that, Prowler?” Jazz winked. “Also, can ya keep an eye on m’ crabs while I reorganize an’ set up their tank? Got a little messy in transit.” Jazz held up a plastic container with the three crabs in it.

Prowl simply cycled his optics at Jazz before gesturing to the end of his desk. Jazz grinned and went back to his haphazard distribution of items. Really, Prowl thought as he sat organizing his desk, he didn’t know why he’d agreed to this. Then Jazz walked by, swinging his hips, and Prowl looked away. Ah. That had been why. He’d never say anything, no, not in the slightest. Jazz was the first real friend he’d ever had, and he wasn’t going to frag that up. For some reason, perhaps due to being a “pain in the aft” as many had described him during his years at university, he had simply...not been able to connect with others. They either found him too dull, or he found them too sycophantic. 

Jazz, on the other hand… Jazz was loud, brash, and had no problem telling Prowl to frag off when he was wrong. Once Prowl had gotten over his initial anger, he actually found that he liked arguing with Jazz. And the mech was easy on the optics, and wonderful to watch when he performed out in the campus square. 

Even the little beasties he liked to keep were… interesting to observe. 

As long as they were contained. 

Which they were apparently not at the moment.

Prowl flicked his doorwings in reflex as one of Jazz’s crabs crawled across the desk to his hand and began climbing it. He carefully pulled it off and held it up in front of his face, setting it on his palm. 

It was sort of cute, Prowl thought, as it tried to snap at his fingers. It was… spirited. Like Jazz.

Prowl looked around and, verifying that Jazz was not present in the room, leaned down to kiss it, as he had seen Jazz do on occasion. It waved a claw at him in curiosity, and Prowl put it back in the small tub that it had bravely escaped, returning it to the welcoming claws of its brethren. While a full school year of being around Jazz had eliminated much of his apprehension around the creatures, he still did not trust them crawling around his plating. He returned to his work, keeping a better optic on the three crabs working together to try and escape their tiny plastic prison. Thankfully, Jazz returned in just a few breems.

“Alright, Prowler. I can take ‘em back now. Yes, ya get t’ go in yer new home now, beasties.” Jazz cooed at the plastic tub, as the crabs waggled their claws in an appropriately timed celebration. 

Prowl bravely fought the smile that threatened to pop onto his face, but not fast enough. Jazz turned his coos onto Prowl.

“An’ yer in yer new home with m’ now too, Prowler.”

Prowl cycled his optics at Jazz for what seemed the millionth time today, but let the small smile slip through as his doorwings waved in happiness. Jazz may not have known what he was saying, but Prowl knew how true those words were, and Prowl wanted them to be true forever. 

“Yes. I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl likes the crabs AND Jazz now! But Jazz is oblivious. Or is he? :p
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	21. Ratchet/Drift: Hitchhiking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humanformers, because I was not imaginative enough to find a way to make this work for robots who literally turn into cars. *shrug*

Drift struggled through the snow, shifting his backpack so that it sat more securely under his coat, which was by now thoroughly soaked and holding more snow on it than seemed to make it to the ground. The few people that he had told about this trip had told him it would end poorly.  _ It was too late in the year _ , they said.  _ You’ll get stuck in the mountains, and hitchhiking never ends well for anyone who looks like they’ve just crawled out of a gutter. _ Drift had acknowledged all their concerns, but pointed out that _ he’d been in the military for years, hard living and bad conditions were nothing new for him _ . And he needed to find work. Work, a roof over his head, and a life. There were easier places to do that in. 

So he strapped everything he owned to his back and started walking. He’d made it over the first mountain range before winter set in, walking along the major roads, the first major snowfall happening on his descent, but now it was well and truly winter, and Drift was in places he’d never been, had no idea where to go with no money and barely any ID beyond a driver’s license and dog tags. So he gritted his teeth and kept walking, sticking out his thumb any time he could hear an engine coming up behind him, which wasn’t often, both from the deadening of the snow and the sheer lack of traffic. Clearly, normal people were saner than he.

Ratchet, for his part, had just gotten off his shift at the hospital, taken one look at the snow and knew that if he didn’t go home now, it’d be two or three days before he could. Despite his reputation as a work-a-holic, he did not, in fact, enjoy sleeping at his desk or on a spare cot in a storage closet. He liked his own, warm, soft bed and fuzzy socks. So he waved goodbye, scraped down his car windows, and turned up the heat as far as it would go, before flicking on his hazards and crawling out of the hospital parking lot. Hopefully, the main roads were still relatively clear. He hummed when he reached the main road, pleased when he saw that while the snow was beginning to stick, the lines were still visible. He’d left just in time, then. 

Driving along, he almost missed the man walking on the side of the road, arm held out, but in such a way as to signify to the doctor that he was probably exhausted. Grimacing, Ratchet pulled over a few feet in front of the man, hoping that he wasn’t a serial killer or an escaped convict. Letting someone die on the side of the road in what might end up a blizzard wasn’t really his style, so he’d have to take the risk.

Drift knew he was getting too cold. He’d seen the effects on plenty of other soldiers, the missing fingers or toes. He was pretty sure he wasn’t to that point yet, but he needed to get warm. But he was at least a mile from any free shelter, and if he went to sleep outside, he knew his likelihood of survival was extremely low. So when Drift noticed the van pulling over with its hazards on, watched it come to a stop just in front of him, he could have collapsed in relief then and there. But he pushed forward until he came to the passenger side door. The driver rolled the window down just a little.

“Need a ride?”

“I think you’ve literally saved my life.” Drift responded, teeth chattering.

“I’m a doctor. I’m fairly sure letting you die on a roadside is against my oaths. You a convict or a serial killer?”

“Former soldier.” 

“Good enough.” The door lock clicked, and Drift shifted his coat and backpack off before he climbed in, nearly moaning when the hot air hit his limbs. He shut the door, tossed his coat and bag in the back and buckled in (with a little difficulty), and the driver got back on the road.

“Going anywhere in particular?”

Drift shrugged. “East.” He leaned his head back. “Name’s Drift.”

“Ratchet.” He didn’t look at his passenger. “Why are you out in this weather?”

“Got back from overseas, didn’t have anywhere to go. Couldn’t find anything back home, so I started walking.” Drift shut his eyes.

“Ah.” Ratchet muttered. The two sat in silence for the next twenty minutes or so, crawling along at a snail’s pace. “You care where you end up?”

Drift shook his head. “Not really. No family left, and any work will do, as long as it gets me a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I became a soldier to avoid not having those things, and look where that got me.” Drift chuckled, but didn’t smile.

“I served too. Being medical had its advantages, though. Jobs were waiting when I got back.” Ratchet responded. “You have anywhere to go tonight?”

“No. I was trying to find some sort of homeless shelter, but the last town I passed through a couple miles back didn’t have any open beds.”

“We never do in this weather. Regulars snatch them up soon as the weather reports come out.” Ratchet muttered. He eyed Drift out of the corner of his eye, assessing him. He was in an unusually good mood, and feeling benevolent, probably from getting out a little early at the hospital and being able to make it home. “I’ve got a couch you can crash on. Just until the weather clears enough for you to get back on the road.”

Drift opened his eyes and picked his head back up, staring at Ratchet. “You’d do that for a stranger?”

Ratchet shrugged. “I may be a crotchety old fart, but someone I consider a friend now did it for me when I came back. And, actually, now that I consider it, he was mentioning that he needed to hire extra help at the store. If you really don’t care where you end up, he’s fair and will probably help you find a place to live, idealistic person that he is.”

Drift considered that for a few minutes. “I don’t think you are.”

“Aren’t what?” Ratchet glared at him.

“Old.” Drift smirked, and Ratchet huffed. Drift spoke quickly before his host could. “Really, though, thanks. I appreciate the offer. Of the couch and the favor.”

“Least I can do. Just don’t stab me in my sleep.”

“That would be an unfortunate end to our friendship.”

“We aren’t friends, kid.”

  
  
“Not yet.” Drift smiled and leaned his head back again, missing Ratchet’s half-smile, dozing off before he could hear the affirmative reply.

“Not yet.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure picking new friends up off the side of the road in a blizzard isn't super safe, but Ratchet can defend himself.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	22. Knock Out/Breakdown: Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other Pairings: Starscream/Knock Out before switching to Knock Out/Breakdown. Also, I apologize for hurting Knock Out like this. But it ends well.

Knock Out sighed as he leaned with his face in his right hand, elbow on the table as he looked at the decals on his other arm. While they’d been there since his final adult upgrades, while he’d tried to cover them up by painting a coordinating design around them (which, for the most part, had worked, as most didn’t immediately recognize them as being his marks), he still knew they were there. Oh, he’d had a brief period where he’d tried to find his sparkmate, but didn’t succeed. So he’d settled. While they weren’t bonded by any means, he had a long-term relationship with Starscream. And it was nice. Really. It was. Many non-sparkmate pairs lived long, happy lives together. Knock Out had no complaints whatsoever. He sat up with a little sigh, looking around at the happy couples that dotted the restaurant.

But their marks didn’t match. They never brought it up. It was something they both knew and forcibly ignored. Actually, Starscream should be here soon. He’d commed to let Knock Out know that he’d be a breem or so late, something about another minor explosion in the labs. Knock Out had used the opportunity to buff his plating just a little bit more. It never hurt to look good. So here he was, sitting, tapping his claws, checking the time. The waiter brought around another cube of high-grade. 

A breem passed. Then two. Knock Out tried comming Starscream. It went to inbox. Another breem. Four. Five. He tried again. No response. At the point that a joor passed, Knock Out stood up, tossing enough credits on the table to cover his drinks, plus a tip for the waiter. This happened occasionally. Knock Out was sure that Starscream had simply gotten caught up in another experiment, another project that demanded immediate attention. He was second priority.

That was fine. Totally. He wasn’t clingy.

He trudged along, too tired to even swing his hips a little like he would normally. He stopped in front of a shop window, the jewelry inside catching his optic. He stepped a little closer, pressing his olfactory to the glass like a sparkling in a candy shop. He sighed a little. It was weird to buy oneself jewelry, at least Knock Out thought so. Starscream would never think of such a thing, to bring Knock Out a small piece for an anniversary, or a crystal bouquet just because. It just wasn’t his style. Really, their style was getting into stupid arguments over things before making up with cheesy compliments and smiles and occasionally something more.

But he was happy enough. After all, Starscream was a decent mech who didn’t cheat on him. Right? Knock Out commed again, with no response. Maybe he could swing by the labs. No reason. He didn’t need one. Starscream would be happy to see him. He’d probably just forgotten about their date. That was all. Knock Out entered his permanent visitor code that he’d gotten as Starscream’s long-term partner, and made his way back toward the lab that he knew Starscream usually used. As he got closer, he could hear loud voices, but they didn’t sound angry, just excited. So he had gotten caught up in an experiment again. Knock Out opened the door, opened his mouth to announce himself, and then… he saw them. Starscream, with another mech standing right behind him, practically hanging off of him, pointing out things in the papers in front of them. 

Starscream laughed. Knock Out’s mouth snapped shut. He’d never heard him laugh. At least not this laugh, pure, less shrill, happy. Then Starscream leaned his helm back and the other mech, a large, white mech with green and orange stripes and audials that kept flashing when he spoke, leaned down and kissed him. Knock Out shut the door then, sagging back against it.

They weren’t sparkmates. It shouldn’t hurt this much. And if those two were, then why should he get in the way of that? He pushed himself off the door, fluid stinging his optics. He walked quickly away from the lab, pushing his way into what appeared to be a storage closet before letting the tears come free and fast, splashing down onto his plating. He thought he heard the door open, but didn’t bother to raise his helm to see. He felt, rather than saw, the intruder sit down next to him. He definitely felt the large hand placed onto his back, not moving, just there. He cleared his vocalizer enough to speak.

“Go away.”

“You really want that?” The voice was soft, mellow. Knock Out looked up into a burnt orange faceplate, yellow optics filled with concern for the crying mech.

“...No.” He whispered before pulling his knees closer to his chest.

“I’m Breakdown.”

“Knock Out.”

“Knock Out. Pretty. Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Knock Out hesitated. “Yes.”

Breakdown remained silent.

Knock Out hiccuped a little. “He’s not my sparkmate. Our markings don’t match.” He waved his left arm vaguely. “But we were happy. Happy enough, anyway.”

Breakdown hummed. “Never liked the whole sparkmate thing myself. Rather get to know a mech or femme before the universe tells me I’m perfect for them or whatever slag we tell sparklings now.”

Knock Out huffed. “Exactly. That’s why I hid mine among other decals.” He gestured to his left arm. “You can barely see it now.”

“You’re right.” Breakdown commented softly as he traced the correct marking, having taken a solid breem to figure out where it went. “I’m impressed. You really went to all that trouble to avoid your sparkmate?”

Knock Out shook his head. “Spent, oh, what was it, three vorns looking for my sparkmate? Couldn’t find them, so I dropped it. Moved on with my life. Figured if I came across them one orn, I could get to know them without them being pushy. Then I met Starscream at a conference for medical technology fifteen vorns ago and we hit it off. We  _ liked _ each other. I guess he wasn’t as disillusioned with the whole concept as I thought.” Knock Out buried his helm again, optics filling. “I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.”

“Of course you should.” Breakdown hadn’t interrupted once, as his hand went back to Knock Out’s shoulder. “You spent fifteen vorns together. That’s not exactly a small chunk of time.” He fell silent for a moment. “I spent about seven vorns with this femme named Airachnid. Crazy, but fun. Then she stabbed me rather than just break up when she found her sparkmate. Spent about three decaorns in the hospital recovering, and just got out this last decaorn.”

Knock Out’s helm had come back up. “You’re fragging kidding me.”

Breakdown had to grin. “Nope.”

“How are you still smiling?”

Breakdown shrugged. “I prefer to look on the bright side of things. She could have killed me. She didn’t.”

“So you’re saying I got off easy?”

“Hardly.” Breakdown rubbed a small circle on Knock Out’s shoulder, making him practically melt on the spot. “Cheating’s not easy either. And I don’t care what others would say, that sparkmates can’t cheat on anyone else. They can. They do.”

The two sat there in silence for several breems, Knock Out’s tears slowly drying up and stopping. Eventually, he cleared his vocalizer and shook out his plating. Breakdown removed his hand. “Well. I should probably get my stuff from our apartment.” Knock Out stood up, still unsteady. Breakdown stood up too. 

“Need help? From a friend?”

Knock Out paused. “Probably.” He admitted. “Of course, I have no idea where I’m going. Probably a motel until I can find a place.”

“Let’s get your stuff packed before you worry about that.” Breakdown started walking, Knock Out following. He looked up at the bigger mech, optics narrowing.

“Why were you poking around in the closet, anyway?”

Breakdown shrugged. “Janitor. Just got hired a couple orns ago.”

“Ah.” Knock Out hummed and kept walking, pulling in front of Breakdown by small increments, trying to get out of the building as fast as possible, as far away from his broken spark as possible. Breakdown let him, knowing that the mech would wait outside for him. He glanced down at his own plating, to the very small decal, the twin of Knock Out’s, on the inside of his hip where nobody would ever think to look for it. He’d keep his secret for now. 

The universe couldn’t control everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I don’t really ship Starscream/Knock Out, but I needed SOMEONE and I recognize that TFP really did sort of set it up as a secondary possibility. I stumbled on a couple fics with Starscream/Wheeljack and like… I don’t know WHY I like it so much but I do. Maybe because I dislike Wheeljack (at least TFP Wheeljack) almost as much as Screamy?
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	23. Jazz/Prowl: FWB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably borders on crack. Really, it is. Friends with benefits...but what KIND of benefits?

Holdover, a junior officer recently assigned to the main Autobot base, had just watched Jazz go into Prowl’s office, looking relatively slagged off. It had only taken him a couple orns of being there before he realized that it was the worst-kept secret on base that the SIC, Prowl, and the TIC, Jazz, spent an unusual amount of time in each other’s quarters when they weren’t on duty, and a lot of time in each other’s offices when they were. Oh, sure, Prowl made certain that those times were few and far between, scheduling them oh-so-perfectly so that their schedules should have conflicted, and did on record. 

But really, Jazz could and did do his work from anywhere, and he spent more time in Prowl’s office than in his own. Now, Jazz was well-liked on base, since he was friendly to anyone and everyone, but Prowl was… well, he was a hardaft and no mistake, Holdover thought. He commed his friend Jumpstart the update, who passed it on to his friend, and so on and so forth until every sane mech was avoiding Prowl’s office just in case they heard something processor-wipe worthy. A few brave sparks hung out nearby (but not too close), to see when it was safe to approach again. About a joor after he went in, Jazz came back out, looking significantly _ less _ annoyed. The brief glimpse of Prowl that the onlookers got was one of him sitting serenely at his desk, and the mech closest to the door swore up and down that he had a smile on his face.

This, of course, was utterly ridiculous. Their SIC never smiled. Really, why Jazz spent so much time with him, nobody could understand. Sure, Prowl wasn’t bad on the optics (and neither was Jazz), but how could it  _ possibly _ be any fun?

* * *

Another orn, another officer watching the two during one of the times Prowl and Jazz fuelled in the rec room with the rest of them. Usually, it was just Jazz, getting both of their rations and taking them back to their offices. They sat alone in their personal corner, helms together, chatting over a datapad and their cubes. Prowl said something, and Jazz snickered, poking Prowl in the arm. Prowl didn’t recoil immediately like he would have with anyone else, and the officer smiled into his drink. There was definitely something there. He took a picture of the two huddled there, buddy-buddy despite the crowded rec room and the complete lack of privacy. Their mistake. The officer finished his ration just as the two stood and walked out together, Prowl’s normally stiff doorwings twitching. So they  _ did _ move. He and a couple of the others had a bet running that they didn’t. The officer grinned. He’d said the mech was just too proper and restrained to use them much. The others had disagreed, saying that Smokescreen and Bumblebee’s moved all the time, and they weren’t exactly improper or unrestrained. He’d just shrugged and bet them all two bottles of highgrade that Prowl’s wings  _ did _ move.

Maybe he should even put some money on one of the other bets around base about Prowl and Jazz’s relationship.

* * *

A couple orns later, Jazz had just gotten off shift, grabbing the bottle of highgrade he’d stashed under his desk just for tonight. He waved to Mirage as he left, who simply shook his head in resignation at Jazz’s post-duty activities.

Red Alert watched the feeds, monitoring Jazz’s progress towards his objective, grimacing and setting himself a reminder to ask Optimus again to have basic monitoring set up in quarters.

Ratchet and Drift saw him as they came out of the rec room, Ratchet muttering about “those twins” and Drift simply nodding at appropriate moments, but practically drooling behind Ratchet’s back. Jazz shook his head once he’d passed them. That mech had it  _ bad _ for the Hatchet. Maybe he should give them a little push next time he was in medbay. Or lock them in. Maybe get the twin’s help. But that was a problem for another orn, so Jazz set it to a sub-processing thread.

Nobody else presented themselves until Jazz slipped around the corner into the residential area, bottle of highgrade in his hand, looking suspiciously unsuspicious. He could be going back to his own quarters for a fun night in by himself, but Holdover and Jumpstart, coming from their own quarters, knew better as Jazz walked past them. He was headed for Prowl’s quarters. But they kept those knowing smiles to themselves and gravely nodded, acknowledging their superior as he sauntered by, Jazz giving them a little half-salute as he whistled and swung the bottle from his hand. They glanced back just in time to see him punch in an entry code for Prowl’s door, and they looked at each other and half-winked. Maybe Prowl would be a little kinder with the duty rosters tomorrow.

Jazz flopped into the chair across from Prowl, who was tapping through a datapad, his pedes propped up on another chair in a very un-Prowl like way, his doorwings relaxed on a cushion, and smirking.

“How many mechs saw you on your way in?”

Jazz poured the highgrade out into the waiting cubes, pushing one toward Prowl, who picked it up and sipped it, humming appreciatively. Jazz thought for a moment.

“Five? Maybe six, if you count Red Alert.”

“Sloppy.”

“Hey now, I managed t’ get th’ attention of a couple right outside. Saluted an’ everythin’.” Jazz jabbed his thumb back towards the door. “No  _ way _ they aren’t tellin’ their friends right now.”

“I will never understand the gossip on this base.”

“It’s a way t’ pass th’ time. Who’s fragging who is  _ very _ interestin’ news.”

Prowl was silent for a moment, before his doorwings twitched, giving him away. He sighed. “Who?”

Jazz grinned. “Last I heard, Brainstorm an’ Perceptor…”

Prowl hummed. “I can see it.”

“Ironhide an’ Chromia…”

“How is that news?”

“Ratchet an’ th’ twins.”

Prowl grimaced. “Don’t let Ratchet hear that. Or Drift, for that matter.”

“Boss-mech an’ Megatron.”

Prowl spat out his drink, making Jazz cackle.

“ _ No _ . And when did we start getting Decepticon gossip?”

“Yep.” Jazz drawled. “I dunno how that came through. But it gets worse.”

“I dread the orn.”

“Ya an’ Devastator.” Jazz watched the energon drain from Prowl’s face.

“ _ How? _ ”

“I dunno, m’mech. I tried not t’ think about it. Which reminds me, there’s ya an’ me, as always, obviously.” Jazz grinned. “Think Sunstreaker’s runnin’ bets on it.”

Prowl cycled his optics. “Obviously.” He gestured to the table. “Shall we get started?”

“I’m going t’ beat ya this time.” Jazz said, looking over his options.

“The odds of that are less than 31.594%.”

“Fine.” Jazz reached over and moved one of his pawns. “Yer move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ship whatever you want, but just be aware it’ll be gossip on the Autobot base at some point. xD.   
Didn’t feel like writing smut, so I rolled in a different direction with this. I saw this was coming up and was like… what if everyone THINKS that’s what’s going on? :p
> 
> I suppose, in my own way, this is basically a love letter to all of you fanfic writers out there, no matter whether you write big pairings (like Jazz/Prowl or Megatron/Optimus) or little personal headcanons like Soundwave/Bumblebee or Starscream/Wheeljack. Keep our little fandom hearts spinning with your creativity. :D
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	24. Ratchet/Drift: Pirates

“I need the wrench  _ now _ !” Ratchet shouted as the ship rocked again, forcing him to brace himself against the medberth and his patient, keeping both them and himself in place as the plasma cannons tore holes in the hull of the ship, letting both the air and the rustwater in. He doubted this patient would survive, but he was going to try his hardest to save him anyway. That was his oath as a doctor, and he would uphold it come pits or high water. 

Or pirates, apparently.

His assistant had just handed him two different wrenches, clearly unsure of which he wanted, when the blaster fire ripped through the door, shrapnel hitting the assistant as Ratchet felt the spark of his patient gutter and go out. Knowing there was nothing left to do, Ratchet took aim with the wrenches and let fly. 

_Clang. Clang._ Both hit their targets, the first two mechs through the door into his medbay. Ratchet was reaching for another when the third one in line dashed in and whacked him over the helm with the hilt of his pistol, knocking him out cold.

When he came to, Ratchet was on the deck of the ship, a serious dent in his helm and hands tied behind his back. Looking around, he could tell that a significant amount of the crew was offline or close to it, only a few of the crew of nearly a hundred still surviving. All were in the same position as he, and their attackers had thoroughly bound them all. They were currently going through the ship stores, transporting what they wanted to their own ship and leaving the rest behind. Looking around, Ratchet spotted two mechs rubbing their helms and glancing over at him balefully every now and then. He smirked. Good. They deserved a little pain.

Not much else happened for a solid ten breems, the sun beating down on them as they laid there and the pirates sorted through the ship. Ratchet saw the medical supplies get taken across. Extra sails, parts, energon. Why would they be interested in that, and not the more valuable gold and silver? Sure, some of that went across too, but not as much as Ratchet thought they would take. Unless this was just the last of it.

Then a new mech stepped across the bridge between their ships, and the pirates all saluted. Ratchet examined the newcomer. White and red, his wide-brimmed hat covered his optics from the mid-orn sun. It was clear this was the mech in charge. Another crewman came along and dragged all the prisoners to their pedes, forcing them into a straight line. Ratchet ended up at the end. The pirate captain stalked along it, before starting at the opposite end, pulling the unfortunate mech along to the edge. They stood there for a moment, soft voices filtering over to Ratchet as the rest of the pirates got back to work. Then the pirate shoved the mech he was speaking to off the ship. Ratchet bit back his cry of horror. He’d just murdered that mech. Even if they survived the initial shock, with hands bound as they were, the sharkticons or rust infections would get them before long, if they couldn’t make it to the island that Ratchet could see on the horizon. Drowning was the easiest way to go. 

A small part of Ratchet’s processor hoped he could convince the pirate captain that he would be more valuable alive than not, but the rest said he should deactivate with honor, as a medic in the Prime’s Navy should. Still, sharkticons, drowning, or rust did not appeal to him at all. He watched, increasingly horrified and furious as each of the remaining crew members was subjected to the same treatment. Some ran from the captain, flinging themselves into the sea. Some heard him out, then looked back and stepped off. One asked a question, and when the captain replied with a shake of his head, he spat in his face before jumping. 

Ratchet stood there, chin held high despite having his hands tied behind his back. If he would deactivate, it would be with dignity. He did not try to look at the captain as he got closer and closer to Ratchet’s place, even when he grabbed the last one next to Ratchet.

It was a short conversation. The mech was unceremoniously shoved off, and the captain turned to Ratchet, stalking over. He grabbed the medic’s shoulder and dragged him to the edge. They stood there in silence for a klik, then the captain spoke.

“I’m Drift.” The voice was soft, almost youthful. Now Ratchet could see his blue optics, and they only added to the effect. “I don’t want to do this, but the Prime’s Navy has been making life difficult. Still, killing unwarned, innocent mechs doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Says the mech who just shoved two dozen mechs to their doom.” Ratchet snarked, and the captain glared at him. Ratchet glared right back, and the two stood there, the captain’s hand twitching. “If it bothers you that much, why do it?”

“Because my people have been struggling to survive for eons, and now Sentinel thinks he can waltz right in and take our resources for himself, for the elite.” Drift gestured. “You see those islands out there? That’s my home. We’re hardly pirates, just a defense force. And your crew chose their fates. If you noticed, over half of them refused to hear me out and jumped off.”

“You prey on merchants and Navy.” Ratchet pointed out, ignoring the last part of Drift’s argument. He was going to deactivate anyway, so it might as well be after getting his say out. “Why not make a treaty?”

“We tried.” Drift said, flatly. Ratchet recoiled. “This is the result. Our people were captured when we allowed Sentinel’s people in to explore, and our resources were stolen. We’ve had to move to your lands, be taken under Sentinel’s rule, just to survive.”

“The Prime wouldn’t do that.”  _ Would he? _

“And how well do you know your Prime?” Drift retorted. Ratchet stayed silent. Drift nodded. “Exactly. So I’ll give you a choice. Join me, and you can take a step back, we’ll untie your hands, and you can help right the wrongs of the Prime. Or you can simply be another victim to Sentinel’s rule, killed like he killed us. Senselessly.”

Ratchet looked down into the sea to where he could see the greying forms of mechs who had chosen drowning, to the sides where a few mechs were managing to sort of wiggle their way toward the islands, and over to the pirate ship, where mechs were busy sorting their supplies. Now that he looked at them, really looked, he could see the signs of rough living, but he had supposed that was just the way the pirates were. Was it true that Prime had done this to them?

“If I join you, can I return to my work as a medic? I am trained, after all. And you look like you need it.” Rust, sharkticons, drowning, or working for the pirates. What a choice.

Drift shrugged. “Sure. But keep in mind that the slightest hint of treachery, of mishandling my mechs, and you’ll be off the side swimming for your life.”

“Very well.”

Drift nodded, nudging Ratchet back. “Step back.” Once he did, Drift pulled out a dagger and slashed through the bindings on his hands.

“Welcome to the crew…”

“Ratchet.”

“Ratchet. Behave, or I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” Drift smiled, fangs flashing, and gestured to the rest of his crew. “We’re done here! Pack it up!” He turned and stalked toward his own ship, jerking his head at Ratchet to indicate that he should follow.

Ratchet followed, but then stood at the rail for a long while afterward, watching as his former allegiance went up in flames as they sailed away.

What sort of devil’s deal had he made?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized we only have a week left in AUgust, y'all. Wow.
> 
> So, this was an... interesting day. I don't know entirely how I feel about it (especially considering Anon_E_Miss's wonderful Jazz/Prowl pirate AU ;)) but it was kind of fun to play with anyway.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	25. Knock Out/Breakdown: Time Travel

Knock Out sat up with a gasp, clutching his chestplates, fans running fast and his vocalizer gasping. His nightmare was fading fast, the news that Breakdown had been offlined, the long, lonely vorns after, watching Prime go to the well, and then reality set in again. That hadn’t been a nightmare. The old grief began to fill his spark.

Then a large hand trailed over his back, and Knock Out’ fans stuttered. He looked behind him to the sleepy optics of his Conjunx, tracing patterns near his hips.

“You okay there, sweetspark?” He mumbled, voice thick with recharge.

“Breakdown?” Knock Out whispered.

“Still my name, yes.” The lazy smile crept across his face.

Knock Out, suppressing a sob, fling himself across Breakdown’s chassis, thoroughly waking up his Conjunx.

“Whoa there, Knock Out. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a nightmare.” His voice sputtered, and he buried his helm in Breakdown’s neck. 

“Doesn’t sound like it.” Breakdown’s hand never ceased in its comforting movements.

“Don’t worry about it.” Knock Out lifted his helm and, reaching up, traced Breakdown’s face (missing an eye, he noted), trying to rememorize every curve and angle. Breakdown’s optic never left his own, yellow meeting red. 

“Sweetspark?”

“Always.” Knock Out whispered as he leaned down and kissed Breakdown, pouring every night of loneliness into it, every day of knowing he’d be alone for the rest of his millions of years. Breakdown’s hand stilled before tightening on Knock Out’s hip, drawing him in further, sitting up, pulling him into his lap, never breaking the kiss. 

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do this again until MECH was dealt with.” Breakdown murmured against Knock Out’s lips.

“Maybe I changed my processor.” Knock Out murmured right back, chasing after Breakdown’s lips, trying to run his hands down his chassis. But Breakdown pulled away.

“Knock Out. I’m not stupid. Don’t treat me like I am.” His voice was still soft, but the steely note of command was there, one of the last remaining signs of his vorns as a Wrecker. It was a tone that meant  _ tell me everything  _ ** _now_ ** .

Knock Out sighed and dropped his helm with a soft clang on Breakdown’s chest. Breakdown waited quietly.

“You died.” He said simply. He felt, rather than saw, Breakdown’s nod.

“And did you live?”

“Yes.”

“And was it really a nightmare?” 

Knock Out froze and looked up, Breakdown’s single optic soft and sad.

“I don’t know.” He admitted quietly.

Breakdown just nodded again. “When I was young, still a sparkling, my Carrier told me a story. It was about two mechs who loved each other, but never knew until it was too late.”

Knock Out shifted a little, curling in Breakdown’s lap and arms, closing his optics. Breakdown so rarely told stories anymore, having tried to leave his origins behind in many ways, but his conjunx’s story-telling voice was deeper, richer, and something that Knock Out treasured every memory of.

Breakdown paused, letting Knock Out get comfortable, then continued. “The two, Paradox and Zodiac, grew up together on the coast of the Rust Sea. They spent every orn running along the edge, whispering their dreams to each other, looking at the stars and wondering if they would see anything beyond their little part of the world. One night, the two were sitting on the cliff over the sea that they had spent their lives meeting at. Zodiac turned to Paradox to ask him a question, but seeing the second moon reflected in the other’s optics, kissed him instead. 

“Paradox didn’t respond immediately, and Zodiac jumped up to run away, so afraid of the other’s wrath -- for Paradox was well-known for his temper -- that he didn’t notice when Paradox reached out for him to draw him back. Zodiac lost his balance, and he slipped into the sea. As this was the days before mechs learned to swim in the Great Sea, and to block out the rust, he drowned. Paradox could do nothing but watch as the mech he loved slipped beneath the waves, powerless to stop it.” Breakdown fell silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Knock Out, half in recharge by now, didn’t comment. 

“But Paradox had a secret, a special ability. He could turn back time to a moment of choice, somewhere where time diverged, or simply to a particular happy memory. He could not use it for himself, however, that having been Primus’s stipulation when he was given it at his Naming. So instead, Paradox spent his life making sure others could have a second chance at the love he had missed. He traveled to the stars and beyond, calling his ship Zodiac in memory of the mech he had lost. During his travels on Cybertron, however, he heard a story, a fairy tale. This story said that when a spark was on the brink of slipping into the Well, it could make one final wish, and no matter what it was, it would be granted. Paradox initially scoffed -- for who would wish for anything except more life? -- but still kept this story close, and thought long and hard about what he would wish, should it be true. 

“Finally, millions of years later, as he felt his spark growing weak, he stood on that same cliff that he and Zodiac had sat on so long before, and as he jumped into the Sea, he made his final wish. His wish was that his gift would continue, that any who should need the second chance be given it, but that no mech be given his curse again, for that was what he felt it was. And so Paradox and Zodiac were reunited in the Sea and the Well.” Breakdown concluded, and Knock Out opened his optics.

“Was Paradox’s wish granted, then?” He asked.

Breakdown shrugged, optic still far away, in his story. “Nobody knows. Sometimes, a mech or femme will claim what the humans call deja vu, and say it saved their sweetspark’s life, but did they have Paradox’s gift, or just a dream?”

Knock Out hummed, tracing the armor over Breakdown’s spark. “I like the first option the best.” He looked up. “Merge with me?”

Breakdown leaned down, capturing Knock Out’s lips with his own softly. “I do too.” He admitted. “My spark is always yours. You know that.”

And as their chestplates opened, as everything that was Breakdown became Knock Out, and everything that was Knock Out became Breakdown, Knock Out had one final conscious thought that was all his own.

  
If this was a second chance, if the other had not been a dream, then he was wringing every last klik of joy he could out of this. And nobody, and he meant  _ nobody _ , was going to take his Conjunx away from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not supposed to be storytime with Breakdown but apparently that’s where it wanted to go. Ah well. Soft.
> 
> See ya tomorrow.


	26. Jazz/Prowl: Tech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: “I’ve been breaking my phone on purpose just because you work at the help desk.”
> 
> Also, this is definitely the longest story I’ve written for this so far. Fun.

The first time he dropped his tablet, it was actually a complete accident. Jazz had been trying to take a photo of the energon treats he had just made when it had slipped out of his hands, hit the corner of his counter, and hit the floor on its edge, sending cracks up the entire screen. He couldn’t do anything but watch as this happened, all reflexes gone as his processor froze up.

“Ah, slag.” He swore as his frame finally decided to move again, picking up the tablet gingerly, hoping it would still work. It would turn on, certainly, but glass was flaking off from the screen. He sighed heavily, setting the tablet on the counter as he put the energon treats in the cooler and grabbed his apartment keys, tossing them in his subspace. His tablet went into a bag before also going in his subspace, and he did a quick search for the nearest electronic repair store. It was only a few kilometers away, so Jazz left his apartment, locking the door behind him, and transformed. 

Following the directions the datanet had given him, he drove toward the store, reaching it in just a couple breems. If he broke a few speed limits to do it that fast, well, no Enforcers saw him. Going back to his root mode, he took the bag with its victim out of his subspace and walked in, looking around for the repairs desk. It wasn’t immediately visible, but thankfully, an employee noticed his confusion and asked if they could help him, pointing him towards the back corner of the store with a wince. Jazz raised an optic ridge behind his visor. Odd reaction, he thought, but thanked the employee -- Smokescreen -- regardless and walked back.

He came around the end of a shelf, only to be greeted by what seemed to be a very bored, very grumpy, very _attractive_ Praxian. He looked up as Jazz approached.

“What did you manage to do today?” He asked.

Jazz cycled his optics, not that the other mech could see it. “I dropped m’ tablet.” He pulled it from the bag and set it on the desk. 

“Clearly.” The other mech -- who Jazz could see from his nametag was named Prowl -- examined the tablet, plugging it into the computer in front of him. “Thankfully for you, the system itself is fine, as is the data. However, you will require a new screen.” 

Jazz crossed his arms. “Tell m’ somethin’ I don’t know.” He muttered, not at all impressed with this mech. Clearly, the other’s reaction had been justified. Idly, he wondered just how many complaints the store had gotten and why this mech was still working here.

“This model is known for having poor screen design and should have been recalled, except for a timely reparation on the company’s part. If you can tell me when it was purchased, I can see if you are still under warranty, and see if you qualify for the reparations.” Prowl said mildly, not looking at Jazz, still typing away at his computer.

Jazz’s optics cycled once. Twice. Three times. “Alright, that _ is _ somethin’ I didn’t know.”

“Most mecha don’t. I will require the receipt if you are still under warranty as proof of purchase.”

“Have pretty much everythin’, m’mech. I bought it… ah, two quartexes ago? I’d have t’ check th’ receipt t’ be specific.” Jazz estimated.

“Warranty lasts until three quartexes. I need a specific date for the reparations. Do you have the receipt on you?”

“Electronic work?” Jazz asked, pulling up his messages on his phone and doing a quick search.

“Electronic is fine. Send me a copy to attach to the paperwork, if you would.” Prowl handed a card to Jazz, with the store’s datanet address.

Jazz forwarded the relevant information to the mech, who nodded and typed for a couple more kliks, before finally meeting Jazz’s optics for the first time. Jazz almost stuttered at how blue they were.

“Your repairs will be done next orn. We have replacement parts already in-store, and no current repairs in line before you. As for the reparations, you do qualify and I will submit the ticket to the company on your behalf for your partial refund. I will forward it to you once it arrives. Here is your repair ticket.” Prowl handed Jazz a datapad with his repair number and the tablet’s description.

“I… uh, thanks, m’mech.” Jazz stumbled.

“You are welcome. Have a good orn.” Prowl turned back to his computer, proceeding to ignore Jazz completely. Cycling his optics one last time, Jazz turned to leave, honestly confused about what had just happened.

* * *

He picked up his tablet the next orn. Prowl was not there, instead, a young, talkative Praxian named Bluestreak handed him his tablet. Jazz lingered for a moment.

“So when I dropped this off last orn, there was a mech named Prowl workin’. He was…” Jazz hesitated, and Bluestreak sighed.

“Are you filing a complaint about him?” The mech sounded like this was not uncommon, and Jazz noted that his previous thought had been correct. 

“Nah, I was just wonderin’ what his deal was.”

The mech across at the main desk spoke up. It was the employee from the other day. “Prowl’s just like that. Genius with tech, not so much with other mecha. Smokescreen, by the way.” Smokescreen waved.

“So why --” Jazz started. Bluestreak interrupted.

“Why’s he still here?” 

Jazz nodded. Smokescreen sighed and spoke before Bluestreak could answer.

“Kind of hard to fire your older brother, especially when he owns a third of the store.”

“Brother?” Jazz looked between the two. Now that that was out, he did notice some similarities between Smokescreen, Bluestreak, and Prowl.

“Yep.” Bluestreak grinned. “We trade off shifts out front here, but Prowl does all the repair work.”

“I guess that would make it hard.” Jazz scratched the back of his helm. “Well, I guess I’ll see ya later. Or not. Hopefully.” He grinned, holding up his bag with the freshly-repaired tablet. Bluestreak laughed and waved. Smokescreen lifted a hand in farewell, too interested in his own tablet to do much more.

* * *

That night, Jazz was sitting on his sofa, scrolling the datanet on his tablet. Then he stopped. He looked at his computer.

“Ya know, if ya were a normal mech, ya would just go in t’ buy a chargin’ cable or somethin’.” He muttered to himself as he plugged in his tablet to back all the data up, running it twice to be safe before disconnecting it and hacking into the software, uploading a virus he had programmed a couple decaorns back. It wouldn’t really break anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Ah, well, good enough time to test it as any, Jazz reasoned as the virus did its work, locking up programs one by one. 

Now, Jazz didn’t consider himself a bad mech, but sometimes keeping the Senate and big companies on their toes was reasonable. Especially when they paid him to do just that. This virus was scheduled for a decaorn from now. They’d given him eight to try and lock up their finance systems. Jazz was going to strike during the seventh, once they’d let down their guard some. And right now, as he watched his virus do its work, he was pretty sure he’d found a winner. He defied even Soundwave to block it. Finally, it set the lock screen to one that gave an address to message. It would route to Jazz’s computer. Jazz nodded, set the tablet by his door, and got in his berth. He’d run down tomorrow.

Hopefully, Prowl would be working.

* * *

The black and white Praxian was doing just that when Jazz walked in the next morning. His optics narrowed as he saw Jazz, who put on his best “worried” expression as he set down the tablet in front of Prowl.

“What did you manage to do now?” He looked at the lock screen, still displaying the address. He sighed. “Do you not have virus protection on this?”

Well, Jazz did, but not for his own viruses. “Nope.” He said, a little too cheerfully. Prowl raised an optic ridge. He shrugged. “Never needed it before now.”

“Mecha never do.” Prowl groused before plugging in the tablet, using a different cable than before, Jazz noted with some interest. “It looks like a fairly standard ransomware.”

“Standard?” Jazz said incredulously. How _ dare _ this mech call his baby _ standard _?

“I am looking directly at the code right now.” Prowl said, turning his computer screen so Jazz could see. Prowl’s voice dropped, as though he was talking to himself. “I have seen more complicated ones. Ironically, that’s what makes it difficult. It is so simple that it would fly beneath the radar of most free virus protection systems until the damage was done. Despite my disgust, I almost want to talk to the mecha who wrote this.” Prowl shook himself out of his reverie. “We can fix this, but I need to ask if you have a backup of your data.”

“Not that dumb, m’mech.” Jazz smiled winningly. So his code wasn’t sub-par, after all. He almost wished he could reveal it as his. Prowl’s optic ridge went up again.

“Then I will simply wipe the drive and restart it. You will have to restore from your backup.”

“Sounds good.” Jazz tapped his fingers on the counter as Prowl ran the necessary commands. Prowl looked up at Jazz as they ran.

“I am curious as to how you managed to break your tablet twice in three days. I rarely see that level of clumsiness or uncaring from a normal, middle-class mech.”

Jazz shrugged. “...Bad luck?”

“I suppose.” Prowl disconnected the tablet and handed it back to Jazz. “Bluestreak will have your total at the main counter. Bluestreak?” Prowl called into the back, and Bluestreak came through the door, grinning at Jazz.

“Oh, hi, Jazz. Back again?”

“Virus.” Jazz waved his tablet in the air. “Prowl fixed it.” He glanced back at the screen as he walked over to Bluestreak. Prowl had saved a copy of his code. Hopefully, he didn’t post it or anything before Jazz could use it.

“Oh, bad luck.” Jazz smiled a little as Bluestreak gave Jazz his total, which was a lot lower than he expected. Jazz glanced over at Prowl, who was staring at his computer, lips moving soundlessly as he worked through the self-repeating lines and the code that allowed the virus to slip in as a simple kilobyte of data in a routine message that then replicated itself into clogging up the drive, slowing the system and then shutting it down. Bluestreak glanced over too.

“Must be an interesting virus.” Bluestreak commented.

“Must be.” Jazz repeated. “He usually keep virus codes?”

Bluestreak grinned. “Only if he finds them especially unique. Don’t worry, he won’t spread it or anything.” Bluestreak assured Jazz. “He wouldn’t want it to get into the hands of someone who might use it. He’s got like, this hall of fame in the back where he prints out the best viruses and he hangs them out like artwork. He’s weird.” Bluestreak gestured with a hand. Prowl didn’t respond, but Jazz saw a doorwing twitch in annoyance/amusement. Time to take his leave, then.

“Well, thanks for th’ work, m’mech.” Jazz waved, which Bluestreak returned. 

Prowl did not, still engrossed in his code.

* * *

Jazz managed to make it a whole decaorn and a half before the desire to see the grumpy Praxian surfaced again. His virus for the Senate had worked like a dream. He’d told the Senate how he’d slipped it in, then pinged the hole a few orns later, pleased when he saw that they’d fixed it swiftly. They'd paid him very, _very_ well, and he was feeling a little bored. Plus, his partial refund for the tablet screen had arrived a couple orns ago, so he had the money for a totally unnecessary repair.

So the tablet’s battery got sabotaged next.

Prowl looked slagged off. “I tested the battery the first time you brought it in.” Prowl glared at Jazz. “There’s no way it failed that quickly.”

Jazz scrambled. “Must have left it out in th’ sun or somethin'. Actually, yeah, that’s exactly what I did. Maybe half a decaorn ago?”

Prowl just muttered under his breath. “I’ll have it fixed in a couple orns. Come back then.”

* * *

After that, it was the home button misaligning. The charging cable not fitting quite right. Another virus (another of Jazz’s, just an idea he was playing with), which Prowl also kept the code for. All little, tiny things that wouldn’t take more than three or four breems to fix, and frankly, Jazz could do them at home.

On this occasion, his tablet was just locked up for some reason (admittedly, not Jazz’s fault beyond over-taxing the system). When Jazz walked in, he saw immediately that Prowl was not working. Smokescreen and Bluestreak both came over to the desk when Jazz walked over.

"Where's Prowl today?" He grinned, keeping his tone light.

“This is the last time we fix this thing.” Smokescreen said, crossing his arms and ignoring Jazz's question.

Jazz opened his mouth to speak, but Bluestreak beat him to it.

“Yeah, really, Jazz. If you want to ask Prowl out, _ just do it _.”

“Oh.” Jazz paused. “...Yer okay with that?” 

What Jazz had not mentioned up until this point was that while his initial view of the Praxian had been less than stellar, he’d been interesting. The time Jazz came in after the first virus incident, he’d casually asked Prowl about the other viruses that he’d found interesting, and even though Jazz had had to hide his own expert knowledge, Prowl had practically lit up, doorwings waving at being asked about his virus collection. After that, Jazz had managed to chip away at the mech’s icy exterior, little by little, seeing a totally different side of the mech, one with a dry sense of humor, intelligence, _emotions_. And, frankly, the gorgeous black and white paint not unlike his own and the icy blue optics hadn’t hurt his later opinions.

Also, it was nice having someone appreciate his viruses _properly_.

“We’d appreciate not seeing you in here every three orns.” Smokescreen corrected. “Now, do we call Prowl down so you can just get on with it, or do we run the commands and you quit doing dumb things on purpose?”

“...Call him down.” Jazz mumbled, folding his arms and looking at the floor.

Smokescreen grinned triumphantly. “Prowl, someone to see you!” He called over his shoulder.

“It’s my orn off, who… Oh. Jazz. What do you need today?” Was that just his imagination, or did Prowl’s optics light up just a little? Nah, must have been his imagination, Jazz reasoned.

“Well…” Jazz hesitated, and Smokescreen made a shooing gesture. Bluestreak tried to hide his grin. Jazz sighed. “Do ya want t’ come over t' m' place, try some of th’ energon goodies I bake? Or get a drink, if ya don’t want t’ come over, which I’d understand.”

Prowl cycled his optics and glanced back at Smokescreen and Bluestreak, who weren’t hiding their amusement anymore. He looked back at Jazz.

“Are you asking for yourself, or because these two put you up to it?” Prowl assessed the situation quickly.

“Both.” Jazz smiled wryly. He held up his tablet. “...I may have been breakin' it on purpose. Not this time, but a lot.”

Prowl shook his helm. “Of course you were. I know deliberate damage when I see it, believe it or not.” He glared at Smokescreen. “Meddler.” Smokscreen just shrugged, Bluestreak giggling now. He looked back at Jazz. “I’d love to try some of your baked goods. _ And _ have a drink.” He said, a small smile on his face.

Jazz couldn’t believe his audials. “...Both?”

“I believe that is what I agreed to, yes. It is rare that I find someone with the same interest in coding and viruses that I do.” Prowl took Jazz’s tablet, not bothering to ask if he had a backup before he ran the codes to unstick it again. He handed it back. “May I simply follow you back to your residence, or do you need to make an arrangement for another orn?”

Jazz grinned again. “‘M free tonight, m’mech.” Even if he had had plans, they'd just gone out the window.

“Then let’s go.” Prowl stepped out from behind the desk. “Don’t wait up.” He smirked at Smokescreen, who just stuttered, Bluestreak laughing uncontrollably by this point.

Jazz cycled his optics. Tonight just got a _ lot _ more interesting than what he’d had planned. Not that he was complaining. 

Not in the_ slightest _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	27. Ratchet/Drift: Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had written another scenario for this, but I got caught up in it and saw that it would be _way_ too long. So you get this, though I have plans to clean the other up and make it its own thing. :D

Of all the orns that Ratchet could imagine, being stuck at the bottom of a cave with a hungry Predacon was not the one he would have picked. The two of them stood at opposite ends of the collapsed cave -- which was not a great distance -- eyeing each other warily. Oddly, Ratchet feel that the creature in front of him was just as scared of him as he was of it, and he pushed his EM field out a little curiously. What met him was a barrage of _ hunger/pain/fear _ and the beast hissed at him, crushing itself back further into the small crevice it had managed to find, folding its wings in as small as it could. Ratchet tried again, filling his own field with _calm/safe/healing_ and taking a small step forward.

The beast hissed again, but didn’t try to move back. It shifted its weight, before hissing once more and shifting back just as quickly.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Ratchet said quietly, palms up and out, speaking like he would to a sparkling in the same situation. “I’m stuck down here with you, and I’d prefer not to get eaten. So making you not be in pain and getting an energon ration into you is my only plan. Of course, if you could understand me, I’d be able to ask you what was wrong, but since you’re a fragging dragon, I have to work with what I have, now don’t I?”

Hiss. The Predacon took a tiny step towards Ratchet, seemingly calmed by his words. Or maybe it was just his field. Or he was about to be eaten. Really, Ratchet didn’t know how intelligent this creature was. He kept up the platitudes as he crept closer.

Another step. Ratchet pulled out his medical scanner. Another hiss. Now Ratchet was almost close enough to run his scans. He reached up his free hand, and the beast eyed it. Ratchet froze.

Then the Predacon lowered its head, sniffing Ratchet’s hand… and then it pressed its forehead into it. Ratchet’s engine stuttered, and _awe_ bled into his field. The Predacon’s field still had _hunger/pain/fear_, but underneath that, _amusement/smugness_. He moved out from his crushed spot, laying himself down, favoring his right front leg and wing. His optics never left Ratchet’s.

Ratchet had the rather uncomfortable thought that the Predacon was much, _much_ smarter than he appeared. 

“Fine, I won’t talk to you like a sparkling if you let me run these scans uninterrupted and don’t have me for a snack.” Ratchet muttered, and the _ amusement _ grew.

Ratchet slowly made his way down the dragon’s body, scanning everything, and he felt the _fear_ retreat, replaced with _curiosity_ as the Predacon realized that Ratchet wasn't out to hurt him. He recalibrated his scanner halfway down.

“You actually have a t-cog?” Ratchet exclaimed, and the beast hissed again. Ratchet’s head whipped up to make sure he wasn’t about to be eaten, and he could have sworn it was smirking this time.

“Slagging spawn of Unicron.” He muttered, checking the t-cog more closely. It looked like it had minor damage, but nothing that wouldn’t be taken care of by repair nanites and some solid recharge. In any case, it wouldn’t stop a transformation. Neither would the wing and leg, as Ratchet checked those over as well. It might be an extremely uncomfortable transformation, perhaps slightly painful, but it shouldn’t actually stop it. Ratchet mentioned this matter-of-factly, and was rewarded with a hiss. He shrugged and put away his scanner, pulling out two energon rations.

“I know from a scientist friend of mine that you most definitely consume energon, and since it’s either transform and eat this or stay like you are and eat me before starving, which is not the choice I would prefer, I suggest you get your gears in line and get on with it.” Ratchet waved the ration in the air, tamping down his fear that the other would choose the latter option regardless.

The two went back to staring at each other. A battle of wills. Ratchet hadn’t developed the nickname of the Hatchet for nothing, however, and finally a long huff from the Predacon had him stepping back to allow as much room as possible. 

_ Whirrr-chunk-chunk-chunk. _

Ratchet cycled his optics as one of the prettiest red and white racer frames he had ever seen stood in front of him, arms crossed.

“Yes, that hurt. Thanks for the understatement.” He bit out, and held out a hand for the ration.

Ratchet handed it to him and settled himself on a rock, the Predacon sinking to the ground where he was, folding his legs and looking more serene than his previous tone and even more-previous hissing would suggest he could.

The two went back to staring as they drank their rations.

“Ratchet.” Might as well get introductions out of the way.

“Drift.” The energon had definitely calmed his EM field, and when Ratchet reached out for it again, he only felt _mild pain/curiosity_.

“What happened?” Ratchet asked, looking over at what had been the tunnel entrance, now nothing more than a pile of rubble.

Drift shrugged. “Cave-in. They happen. Not my fault.”

“Did I say it was?” Ratchet snapped, and Drift’s face started twitching, like he was holding back a smile.

“Temper.”

“Says the one who was just hissing at me.”

“Not many other ways to communicate in my primary form.” Drift replied, calmly. “And, for your information, I don’t particularly like the taste of mechs. Too crunchy.” He grinned then, and his EM field filled with blatant amusement. Ratchet snorted, and the two fell back into silence for a long while, simply assessing the other.

Finally, rations long gone, Drift stood up and began assessing the cave-in, listening carefully.

“Did you have friends out there?”

“Probably.” Ratchet’s optics cycled. “Why?”

Drift glanced back. “Someone’s clearing the tunnel. I’d suggest we help, but my arm isn’t exactly up to the task in this form, and my leg definitely isn’t in the other.” Drift listened for a moment more. “It’ll probably take them a few hours.” He glanced over at Ratchet, who shivered. It was chilly in this cave, and while his fear of being eaten had covered it before, Ratchet was starting to feel the temperature. Drift held out his hand, and noted that the sun must have gone down outside. Cybertron cooled rapidly at night. He looked at Ratchet questioningly.

Ratchet shrugged. “I’ll be fine.” He shivered again.

Drift shook his helm. “No, you won’t. It’s the cold season, and it’s nighttime out there.” He looked at the medic for a moment longer before he stepped back.

_ Whirr-chunk-chunk-chunk. _

The dragon stood before Ratchet again, shifting his weight to his left side before lying down again, letting a questioning invitation bleed into his field. Drift himself would be fine except in the coldest of weather, and he knew his primary form was warmer than his mech form. Now if the medic would just get over here by his chest, he could use his wing to make a tent against his side, near his lungs, which always burned hot. The medic would be fine too. He tried not to hiss, using his field instead.

_ Warm/safe/comfort. _

_Resignation/grumpy/mild fear_. Ratchet came closer, snuggling against the dragon as he got comfortable on the stone floor. Drift covered him with his wing.

_ Safe/not hungry/amusement. _

“Slagger.” Ratchet mumbled as he slipped into recharge, worn out by the cave-in, the stress, and the admittedly _very_ warm Predacon.

Drift smiled to himself as he laid his head down just outside his wing, watching the non-existent entrance to the cave. 

Nothing bad would happen to the medic tonight, not on his watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warm dragon, soft dragon. 
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	28. Knock Out/Breakdown: Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had exactly ZERO ideas on this one when I started so this is what you get. *shrug*

Knock Out shifted from pede to pede as he waited for the current couple getting a photo in front of the life-size model of the Mech from the Pit at the Polyhex Museum of Media to finish up so that he could grab his own selfie. It was one of the first things that mecha saw upon walking in, and as a result, was a popular  _ look where I went  _ photo. Finally, after a couple more breems of goofing off, they moved away to start wandering the museum. Knock Out moved up, and then realized something rather important -- he was a fair bit shorter than the figure. Sighing, he stood on the tips of his pedes, trying to stretch his hand and camera up high enough to get both him and the figure in view.

“Need some help?” A voice on the other side of the figure asked, and Knock Out peeked out around the statue. It was a bulky blue mech, who, most importantly, was a fair bit taller than Knock Out.

“Sure.” An actual photo would be nicer than a selfie anyways. Knock Out handed his camera to the stranger and smirked at the camera as he leaned on the statue, looping one arm around its waist and the other on his hip. The blue mech backed away and snapped a couple photos before handing the camera back to Knock Out.

“Thanks.” Knock Out said, smiling. No reason to be rude to his benefactor, after all.

“No problem.” He turned to go, but Knock Out thought fast. If he could stick with this mech, he could get way more photos and better ones for his net-media account. He moved up next to the mech quickly.

“I’m Knock Out.”

The other mech raised an optic ridge. “Breakdown.”

“Are you by yourself, by any chance?”

Breakdown nodded, slowly. “Uh… yeah.”

“Me too.” Knock Out coyly lowered his helm and played with his camera strap. “My friend couldn’t come today, which is unfortunate, since museums are a lot more fun when you’re with someone.” He peeked up. Breakdown nodded again.

“Makes sense.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Knock Out cycled his optics. How obtuse could a mech be?

“I’m asking if I can stick with you for the orn.” He finally said, spelling it out for the mech in front of him.

Breakdown’s optics cycled. “Oh.” He paused. “I guess so. I mean, I’m here to see pretty much everything, so I’m just going to be wandering.” He shrugged.

Knock Out grinned. Success! “How convenient. I’m in from Iacon for a conference, figured I’d see the sights while I’m here.” He fell into step with the larger mech, who slowed down so as not to leave his impromptu companion behind.

“Same. Well, not Iacon. Kaon.”

Knock Out’s optics widened, just a bit. “Have you been to the horror museum there?”

Breakdown smiled. “Yeah, actually. You?”

Knock Out shook his head. “Always wanted to, but haven’t had the time or credits to go.”

Breakdown made a small sound of sympathy. “That’s too bad. I mean, I understand the horror exhibit here is pretty good, but Kaon has a whole room set up as the chop shop from  _ Mysterious Cold _ and the actual weapon props from  _ Shadow Plays _ , which was awesome.” His optics lit up as he talked.

Knock Out’s jaw dropped. “You’ve seen  _ Shadow Plays _ ?”

Breakdown snorted. “Of course. I have it saved on a data drive. I watch it whenever there’s a thunderstorm. Only proper time to.” He grinned.

“What about  _ Sheet Metal _ ?” Knock Out argued. “That one is just as good in a thunderstorm, probably better, especially when --”

“When Joltstream hears the knock and opens the door only to find Rolljump’s greyed frame leaning on it and an energon dagger in his spark?”

“Exactly!” Knock Out’s optics lit up.

“You have a point.” Breakdown hummed. He looked down at Knock Out, the grin still on his face. He pulled out a map of the building. “Where to first?”

Knock Out looked it over. “Right-hand rule?” He suggested. “That’ll leave the horror exhibit until last.”

“Best for last. I like it.” Breakdown folded the map and turned into the fantasy exhibit.

The two spent the next several hours systematically working their way through the museum, Breakdown taking dozens of photos of Knock Out. At some point, Knock Out just gave him his camera so that he wouldn’t have to keep passing it back to him every time. They got some selfies, sure, and occasionally Knock Out would get a picture of Breakdown or take back his camera to get a photo of a particular item, but Breakdown seemed content to take most of the photos. Finally, they’d wound their way through all the exhibits, even the horror one -- which, while not as impressive as Kaon’s museum, had a pretty cool castle dungeon setup for the sparkeater classic  _ Eternity _ , and the severed helms from  _ Next In Line _ , chattering the whole time about the movies they’d seen and which ones they still wanted to find. Mostly horror, but occasionally some others.

But now they were at the entrance to the museum again. Knock Out shifted from pede to pede.

“This was actually a lot of fun.” He said, hesitating. “I don’t find many mecha who like horror as much as I do.” He smirked. “Even if you do think that  _ Quarantine _ is a better monster film than _ Hear No Evil _ .”

Breakdown grinned. “Well, we’ll just have to have a horror marathon and watch both of them again, won’t we?” He paused, grin falling. “If you want to, of course.”

Knock Out’s smirk didn’t fall. “Seems I’ve gotten attached to my photographer.” He sent Breakdown a short databurst with his comm code. “Here. Call me sometime.”

Breakdown, rather than send his own, sent Knock Out a text message that just said “your photographer :)” Knock Out snickered.

“I’ll send you the photos of you when I get back to my hotel.” He took a step back. “See you around?”

“I hope so.” Breakdown smiled as Knock Out turned around, waving over his shoulder.

Later that evening, Knock Out was sorting through his photos when he noticed a bunch scattered through that he didn’t know about. Sure, there were the ones he’d taken, and the staged ones he’d had Breakdown take, but there were also several candid ones, all of Knock Out, looking at something, optics wide, mouth open just a little as he looked at the first drafts of classic literature or props from holo-vids that had shaped their genres. Once, Knock Out was actually looking up at Breakdown, a giant grin on his face. How had he not noticed Breakdown taking that picture? 

His hand covered his mouth as he flipped through. Since they were all on his camera, Breakdown wouldn’t get to see any of these unless Knock Out let him. He realized that Breakdown had taken candid photos just for him, so that he could see how genuinely happy he was on this trip. He sorted through the photos, finding Breakdown’s, but also attached one where Knock Out was looking up at a screen showing behind-the-scenes clips from  _ One-Way Ticket, _ the light from the screen hitting his faceplates and illuminating his optics as he stood there absolutely engrossed in the action. 

_ Your photos. And about that horror marathon… _

Knock Out sent the text and vented in. 

_ You know, I'm still in Polyhex for three more orns, and I’m staying at the Stellar. You available? _

One klik. Two. Three. 

Breakdown responded.

_ Yes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, Cybertron has to have SOME kind of media museum SOMEWHERE. Unless they’re boring. Which is a distinct possibility.
> 
> Also, I am not personally a horror fan but honestly, pop culture museums have the some of the best exhibits for them. *shrug* I didn’t really base any of the movies they reference on any actual movies, although I imagine Eternity as being basically Cybertron’s version of Dracula, ha.
> 
> And I have the headcanon that all those human horror films at drive-ins were dates with Breakdown and I will cling to that sad ray of sadness till I die.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	29. Jazz/Prowl: Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr prompt I’ve wanted to use for awhile: “Person A owns a flower ship and person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says ‘How do I passive-aggressively say f*** you in flower?’”

Prowl watched with a mild sort of annoyance as the moving truck pulled up in front of the shop-and-apartment across the street and a black-and-white mech jumped out of it, throwing open the back and beginning to unload the contents. He’d noticed that the space, almost identical to his own -- as was common in this part of Iacon -- had finally sold after sitting empty for almost a whole year. The previous owner had been a nice, quiet bookseller named Orion, but he had moved to Kaon to live with his lover, a gladiator and writer. Shame. Prowl knew they were still doing well, as he and Orion exchanged messages every now and then. While Orion had been here, they’d become friends, as apparently crystals and books were a popular pairing for courting-gifts, and they had regularly referred customers back and forth.

Now, though, there was another mech moving in, and Prowl’s doorwings twitched. It wasn’t that he had anything against the mech, and logically, the addition of a new business would bring in more customers, but he  _ did _ hope that it wouldn’t be a cafe. The mech looked like he’d be the type to open some sort of hipster spot, bringing all sorts of noisy people into an otherwise quiet shopping district, with his flashy finish and bright blue visor that Prowl caught a glimpse of every now and then as the mech stopped and looked around at the area, like he couldn’t believe he was finally here.

Ah. A young, hopeful, idealistic mech with a dream of having his own store, then, only to end up closing and moving in two decaorns at this rate, and then the shop would be empty again. Prowl vented and went back to his poetry, a collection Orion had recommended in his last message. It wasn’t normally his thing, but Orion had gotten a decent idea of Prowl’s tastes in the time he’d been here, and he hadn’t been wrong before.

Idly, Prowl wondered if the mech moving in across the street liked reading.

Probably not.

* * *

It was not a cafe that went in, much to Prowl’s relief. It was a nice, quiet bakery, and Prowl had to restrain himself every morning when he woke up to the smell of energon treats floating across to his open window. He would not get attached to a bakery that wouldn’t be there for more than a few decaorns. Even if the owner -- who Prowl had learned was named Jazz by reading the advertisement in the local news -- occasionally came out and left free samples on a table in front of his shop to entice mechs in for more. Even if said owner seemed very friendly. Even if Prowl, admittedly, was in need of a new friend ever since Orion left.

It would just be even more annoying once the mech left.

Prowl watched as Jazz came out to refresh his “free” table and a purple mech came strolling up. When Jazz looked up at the arrival, he practically lit up as he stood on the tips of his pedes to kiss him and the purple mech wrapped his arms around Jazz.

Prowl vented and went back to his inventory keeping.

At least the bakery was just as popular with mechs needing a gift. For all books and crystals had been popular, rust sticks and crystals were more so.

* * *

The bakery did not close in the expected few decaorns. Instead, it kept its steady stream of customers, and Prowl’s resolve started weakening, now into the sixth decaorn of having the shop across from him. He was tired of going all the way downtown for his baked goods, especially when there appeared to be a perfectly good bakery across the street that had absolutely no intention of closing.

Prowl didn’t smell the energon treats this morning, but that meant very little. There wasn’t much of a breeze today. Working up his courage to finally go say hello and flipping his sign to “be back soon,” he strolled across the street, frowning when he noticed that the shop was dark. A sign was taped to the door.

“Closed for personal reasons. Sorry :( -- Jazz”

Prowl vented. So much for that. He went back to his shop, flipped the sign back to “open,” and picked up his book. A couple customers came and went, but it was a slow day. Maybe he’d just close early. A glance at the clock told him he only had another joor before his posted closing time, and he decided to stick it out. Might as well.

Five breems before the closing time, the bell above Prowl’s door jangled. He lifted his helm, only to have a credit stick slapped down on his counter.

“How do ya tell somemech t’ frag off in crystal?” Jazz was standing there, his field spitting out a mix of  _ anger/sad/resolve _ . Prowl pulled his own field in tight, professionally.

“Depends on how strongly you’re trying to word it.” Prowl responded neutrally. “Is this a ‘_you forgot our date_’ or is it a ‘_you cheating abusing slagger, I’m getting a restraining order_’ version of ‘frag off?”

Jazz’s field and expression froze, all emotion dropping from them before the  _ resolve/sad _ came back, but now with the faint addition of  _ amusement. _ He snickered, but looked down at the counter, a wry smile on his face. “More th’ second one. Cheated on m’, had th’ audacity t’ say _ it was an accident _ an’  _ it wouldn’t happen again _ . Mech said that last time, an’ I said  _ last chance _ . He broke that, so I broke it off. He begged. So, crystals.” Jazz said simply, gesturing vaguely at the end.

Prowl nodded and stood up, moving to his shelves behind the counter and picking out specific crystals, narrating his choices as he went. “Hatred.” An opaque orange one went on the counter. “Personal disappointment.” A dull yellow one. “Insincerity.” A transparent purple one. He glanced at Jazz. “Would you care for stupidity and uselessness too?”

Jazz just about choked on his sudden bout of  _ amusement/shock.  _ “I think yer a mech after m’ own spark.”

Prowl smirked, doorwings twitching in pride as he set an iridescent orangey-pink one and a few small milky white ones down as well. “Do you want a specific arrangement set, or just a group box?”

“Does arrangement mean anythin’? Mech’ll know. Old family an’ all that.”

Prowl shook his helm. “Not specifically. A group box would get your message across, but a specific arrangement would suggest a certain care being taken with this, and a certain level to each emotion.”

Jazz leaned over the crystals, examining each one. “We’re done. I’m slagged off, he’s a lying pit-spawn, an’ I never want t’ see him again.” Jazz muttered. “Arrangement?”

Prowl nodded, pulling out a box meant for holding the crystals in place. “Left to right from the perspective of opening the box.” He explained as he opened it, picking up one of the white ones and setting it in first, followed by the orangey-pink, the purple, another white, the yellow, the orange, and finally another white. He turned it to face Jazz. “The white ones are more of a filler, but they convey the uselessness of trying again. His insincerity and stupidity have led to your disappointment and hatred. Does that sound about right?” Prowl’s doorwings twitched and he let his field out, just a little, with  _ sympathy/mild humor _ .

Jazz traced one claw over the crystals. “Nice summary o’ th’ past three vorns.” Jazz mumbled, accepting Prowl’s field and returning _ gratitude _ . “When I reopen tomorrow, maybe ya can drop by. Yer favorite treat, on th’ house.”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched again. “This is my job.” He said mildly. “I don’t need that level of gratitude.”

Jazz shook his head. “Ya made m’ laugh. I feel like th’ pits, an’ this cheered m’ up a bit. That’s worth a couple goodies t’ m’ at th’ moment. An’ actually, can ya ship these t’ him from here?” Jazz asked.

Prowl nodded. “I will require an address. And, if you are truly insistent on the treats, I will stop by tomorrow morning when I wake up.”

“I am.” Jazz gave Prowl the address to ship the crystals to, and paid for them. “See ya tomorrow, then?”

“Indeed.” Prowl responded, packing up the box to ship out in the morning. The bell above his door jingled, and he stepped out to watch Jazz cross the street, disappearing into his shop. Prowl flipped his sign to closed, and finished cleaning up. 

In a sudden bout of animosity for the dumped mech, Prowl put a one-orn shipping label on the box with the crystals, even though Jazz had only paid for standard shipping. He deserved to have the full force of Jazz’s anger while it was still fresh, not in four or five orns once everything had cooled down. 

Prowl hesitated for a moment before he returned to his crystal shelves.  _ Everyone _ liked crystals, Prowl reasoned as he looked through his shelves for something to convey that Jazz would be okay, even if it took a little time. He ended up pulling down tiny opaque white-turning-pink ones, a dull magenta one, tiny transparent yellow ones, a larger, opaque yellow one, and finally, a couple thin, iridescent green ones. He arranged them in a small bowl with the tiny ones scattered in the bottom of the bowl, covering the bottoms of the larger ones. He examined his work with a nod before shutting off the lights and going upstairs, leaving the crystals on his counter to take in the morning.

It would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, the internet (and tumblr, let’s be real) told me that yellow carnations, meadowsweet, foxglove, orange lilies, and geraniums are the proper way to respond to Jazz’s request. 
> 
> Prowl’s gift to Jazz is a combination of cranberry (cure for heartache), balm (sympathy), cape buttercup (joy to come), yellow roses (one meaning is freedom), and reeds (symbol of music, aka Prowl’s attempt at a pun). Am I correct? I dunno. I do what the internet says.
> 
> See ya tomorrow!


	30. Ratchet/Drift: Fairy Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lightly inspired by Little Red Riding Hood (with Hansel and Gretel elements)...except that there’s like none of the original interpretations and I think it would go poorly for any actual wolf that tried to stalk “Red” here xD. Tried to lean into the writing style of an actual fairy tale, so bear with me on this.

Drift was used to the forest by now, with its twisting roads and paths that seemed like paths until one was so far down them that one could no longer see where one had come from. There had been tales of mechs and femmes -- both sparklings and adults -- that had followed those paths to ruin and occasionally fortune, but this was not that kind of a story. Drift was experienced enough to find his way through the forest no matter what kind of a path he was on, and so he explored and told the others where to avoid, where true paths lay and where false ones led.

As a result, the number of unexplained, mysterious occurrences typically attributed to bad metalshrooms had dwindled to next to nothing in the past couple hundred vorns.

On this particular occasion, Drift was filling in a part of his map that he had never wandered to before. But a story had come out of that region, from two terrified twins who had stumbled out, swearing up and down that there was something there that threatened to cook them and eat them if they didn’t leave. They had been incredibly silent on what, exactly, it was, so Drift had to assume it was a Predacon. He asked the mechs in the nearby village where the twins had taken refuge if they’d ever noticed anything unusual, but besides the usual reports of turbo-wolves, nothing. A few smiled as Drift turned away, but resumed straight expressions when Drift looked back curiously at them.

So out he went, looking for the source of the reports. At the very least, he could make this part of the forest a little safer for the other travelers along the way, even if the two sparklings had simply been scared of a wolf, and not some mysterious entity.

The midday turned into afternoon, afternoon turned into evening, and evening turned into twilight. As the frogs from small nearby ponds began to sing, Drift felt something. He swallowed and hoped it wasn’t a werewolf -- something he was woefully unprepared to fight at the moment, since werewolves were so rare as to be extinct these vorns. He’d rather fight the supposed Predacon. Finally drawing his swords, he looked around carefully for whoever or whatever it might be. 

The air shifted. Drift spun and knocked the wrench out of the air, charging at the intruder as he did. 

“Hold on!” The other shouted.

Drift didn’t pause, but shifted his attack so that he simply knocked down the other mech, as that’s what it was. With one sword at the other’s throat, straddling the other’s hips, he smiled, showing off his fangs.

“Who are you?”

“Ratchet. Get off.”

“No.” Drift looked Ratchet over, staying exactly where he was. “A couple sparklings reported something threatening to eat them, and there are reports of wolves in this area. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Ratchet vented and closed his optics, muttering under his breath.

“Didn’t quite catch that.” Drift said, pushing the blade just a little harder.

“They’re my kids!” Ratchet said, louder. “One’s yellow, the other red? Twins?”

Drift raised an optic ridge. “Yeah.”

“Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. The little hooligans.”

Drift shifted off of Ratchet, but kept his sword pointed at the other, even as he sheathed the other and offered a hand up. “So are you looking for them?”

Ratchet rubbed his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. We live in a cottage just over that way.” Ratchet gestured to his left, “And they…” Ratchet hesitated, “Well, let’s just say that they like to stir up mischief, especially when other mechs are concerned. The folks in the village know not to listen to them half the time.” Ratchet jerked his helm back towards the cottage. “Come by. They’re probably sitting there, eating carbon cake and grinning. Besides, it’s almost dark, and there are wolves around, that much is true.”

Drift looked at Ratchet, suspicious of the sudden hospitality (as that is something to be wary of in the forest), but finally nodded, sheathing his other sword.

“Drift.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Drift followed close behind Ratchet, looking over the other now that he had a chance to do so without fearing for his life. Orange, white, bulky. A medic, from the looks of it, not the slim speedster frames that tended to be witches. Of course, stereotypes were a thing, so it never hurt to be careful. 

Drift would decide once they reached the cottage.

They stepped inside in less than three breems of walking, and sure enough to Ratchet’s prediction, the twins were sitting there, grinning, swinging their pedes, and eating sweets.

“Berth. Now.” Ratchet pointed to one of the other doors.

“Aww.” Sideswipe moaned, but obeyed, pulling Sunstreaker with him. He did, however, turn back at the door. “At least he’s cute this time!”

“SIDESWIPE!” Ratchet yelled, turning a faint shade of blue. “Don’t make me come over there.”

With a final grin, Sideswipe disappeared into the room, slamming the door behind him. Drift was left alone with Ratchet, who turned to him and grimaced.

“I apologize for their behavior. And for dragging you all the way out here on a wild goose chase for a Predacon or something similar.”

Drift shrugged. “At least you weren’t a werewolf. That was my first thought for some reason, when I sensed something else there.”

Ratchet snorted. “At least then this would have been interesting for you.” He moved to the stove. “Tea?”

Drift nodded. “Sure.” Looking around, he could see absolutely no signs that Ratchet was anything but a hermit, raising two sparklings on his own. Ratchet brought over two cups and handed one to Drift. They sat at the table, drinking their tea in silence, watching the fire flicker. Finally, Ratchet stood up, went to a closet and pulled out an extra thermal blanket and pillow. “You can recharge on the couch.” He handed the items to Drift. “It’s not comfortable, per se, but it’s safer than the forest.”

Drift smiled. “Thanks, Ratchet. Sorry about jumping on you earlier.” He added.

Ratchet shrugged. “I would have too, if I were a hundred vorns younger. Now, wrenches are just as effective.” He shifted from pede to pede for a moment, before moving to his own berthroom door. “...Good night, Drift.”

“Night, Ratchet.” Drift smiled at his host, who turned a little more blue and went inside, shutting his door.

Drift got comfortable on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He almost wished he were in a fairy tale, where his host would suddenly fall in love with him overnight, and he with his host, and they’d live happily ever after. But this was reality, and so Drift fell into recharge instead, dreaming of werewolves that turned into rather attractive medics, and little sparklings who told lies to try and make fairy tales come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really happy with how this turned out, but it'll do.
> 
> Don’t worry, I’m sure they do fall in love at some point! :D Drift probably makes regular trips out there to check on them, and does still need to reduce the wolf population a little.
> 
> See ya tomorrow (for our last day!)


	31. All Ships on Deck: D&D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, and how are you? It’s finally the 31st, and I HAVE A LIFE AGAIN (well, sort of :p). However, there’s still one more story to read! Technically THREE stories, but they’re all short(er) D&D-inspired things because I have no shame (as evidenced by the chapter title). xD
> 
> All six of them are one party here, though each section focuses on a different pair.

_ Knock Out & Breakdown:  _ _ The Sorcerer and the Barbarian _

Knock Out grumbled as he sat under the gaze of one of the barbarians who had captured him and the other two he was currently traveling with, Drift and Ratchet. Normally, the three of them should have been able to take the three barbarians down easily, but they had been caught by surprise, and Drift and Ratchet had been knocked unconscious. Knock Out the barbarians had simply tied up, not considering him as much of a threat. This, Knock Out found annoying. He’d show them a threat. 

Just as soon as he figured out a plan.

It was an uncomfortable position they’d tied him in, but he didn’t dare shift around too much, afraid that they’d take it as an attack and cut him down. His best defense was the surprise most felt upon realizing he was a sorcerer. Since he hadn’t had time to cast anything, they still had no idea what he could do. He smiled at the closest one, a mostly white one, who just raised an optic ridge.

“Breakdown, how about you look after our prisoner here?” He called, pushing away from the tree he’d been leaning on. “Not a fan of how he’s looking at me.” He smirked at Knock Out’s sputter, and the blue one who had been watching the other two while the green one searched through their luggage looked up.

“Why can’t Bulkhead do it?” He asked, looking at Knock Out askance.

“Hey, I’m doing all the work here. The sleeping ones’ll be fine. Jackie, come help with the sorting.”

“Will do, Bulk.” He smirked at Knock Out once more, going to help Bulkhead, while Breakdown shuffled over, staying as far away as he could while still being within easy striking distance if Knock Out tried anything.

“Uh… hi.” Breakdown muttered, before pointedly not looking at Knock Out. Knock Out knew better. That mech had every sense trained on him, but he also seemed less volatile than “Jackie.” So Knock Out stretched his legs out, adjusting himself so his bumper caught the light just a little better.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Patrolling.” Breakdown muttered. “You’re in our territory.”

“What territory would that be?” Knock Out smiled, winningly, searching his memory for what tribe these mechs might be from.

“Wreckers.”

“Ah.” Knock Out’s smile dropped. He’d heard stories of the Wreckers. Led by Ultra Magnus, they were known for being quick, ruthless, and leaving a mess. 

He needed to get out of these ropes. He looked at his captor. Big, blue, stupid. He smiled again.

“You know,” he started, lacing his words with magic, but keeping his voice low enough to avoid being overheard, “If you were to let me out of these ropes, I could go and bonk your co-workers on the head, not that hard, just hard enough to knock them out, and you could take all the credit for this particular patrol. Do you really want to be ordered around by ‘Jackie’ for the rest of your functioning?”

Breakdown cycled his optics. “Ah.” He looked at the others, who were not paying attention in the slightest.

Knock Out smirked. He’d done it.

“Or I could just do it.” He looked down and grinned at Knock Out, who swallowed. Breakdown didn’t seem perturbed at all. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention that you think I’m dumb enough that a little suggestion will work.” He looked over at the others. “You do have a point, though.” He sighed, all former hesitation gone as he sat down near Knock Out. “So, how did you end up in Wrecker territory?”

Knock Out vented. What a strange mech. He tries to charm him, he ends up downright  _ friendly _ . Ah well, better than nothing. “We were looking for traces of a mech that went missing from the area. Those two,” he tilted his helm at his unconscious party members, “needed a little extra magical oompf, and I like extra coin. They paid me to take them to where the mech went missing and help them with whatever they might find.”

Breakdown hummed. “Probably the wizard that came through a while back?”

Knock Out nodded, surprised. “I recognized Soundwave’s signature. And the signs of his familiars.”

Breakdown nodded slowly. “So, you’re after him?” He vented. “I doubt you’ll catch him, but he’s grabbed Wreckers too.” He looked at Bulkhead and Wheeljack again. “Sometimes, I wish Ultra Magnus actually cared about keeping the area safe. We’re just bandits these days. No adventure.”

Knock Out shrugged, then winced as it pulled on his cables. “Help us out then. Come with us. Or just untie me, and we make the problem go away. Apparently, it’s what we do.”

Breakdown looked between Knock Out and his tribe-mates. He vented.

“Primus help me.”

* * *

_ Jazz & Prowl:  _ _ The Bard and the Monk _

Prowl grimaced as the rain began seeping into his protoform, making everything squeak. The mud from the road began to kick up into his wheel-wells, and he found himself wishing that he had stopped at the last town for a couple of orns once he knew it was going to rain. But then group had come through, looking for information on the arsonist they were pursuing, and Prowl, on the same investigation, had asked if they had room for one more. The group, consisting of a sorcerer, a barbarian, a cleric, and a paladin, had been more than welcoming.

Now, however, he was regretting it. Prowl may not have cared much for how his frame looked (Knock Out had already been whining from the first drops of water), but that did not mean he enjoyed being uncomfortable. While his monastic upbringing had meant hard living at times, he always knew that there was a warm berth and bath waiting for him at the end of it. Right now, they had no idea where the nearest village was, which meant that they may very well be spending the night on the now-soggy ground. 

Drift was currently running scout position, which meant that he was the first to see the village lights. He called back to the rest of the party, and Prowl vented in relief. Hopefully they had an inn, or a tavern, and he could be warm again. The party rolled into town, transforming once they arrived. A friendly guard pointed them in the direction of the inn -- as there was one, thank Primus -- and the group made their way there, all cheered by the same prospect of good food and a comfortable berth. Even Knock Out had stopped complaining, a monumental feat in a rainstorm. 

Stepping inside, they were greeted by the tavern owner, a friendly mech by the name of Swerve, who found them three rooms -- though Prowl, as the only unattached member of the party, would have to share with a stranger, something he shrugged philosophically at. Once all five of them were cleaned up, they came back down, the waitress brought over warm energon and some fresh silverbread with mercury, and the group settled down near the fire. 

A bard was playing nearby, and Prowl found himself focusing on the lute and the mech playing it, rather than his meditation. He frowned. He was usually very good at blocking out distractions, but something about the bard kept him focused. It seemed to be working on a good number of the patrons, in fact, even Breakdown and Drift. Knock Out huffed before dragging Breakdown upstairs, while Ratchet just cycled his optics and smiled. Prowl… Prowl just watched. The other’s paint job was only eye-catching in that it was a shiny black-and-white with red and blue highlights, not the garish colors that most bards used. The mech noticed him watching and winked, making Prowl look away quickly. 

Excusing himself from Ratchet and Drift -- both of whom just waved vaguely, the former reading a datapad while the latter forced himself to look at his conjunx and not the bard -- he retreated to his room. There was no-one else there at the moment. Prowl settled down, cross-legged on his berth, and resumed his meditation, falling into it easily now that there were no distractions. 

He stayed like that for nearly a joor, actually falling into recharge at a couple points before shaking himself awake and resuming. It was on one of these occasions that the door swung open, and Prowl onlined one optic, only to be greeted by the sight of the bard from earlier leaning against the doorframe, grinning.

“So yer m’ sudden roommate.” He chuckled. “Swerve warned m’ that I’d have one with th’ new arrivals. Name’s Jazz.”

Prowl swallowed, looking away. “Prowl.”

Jazz just grinned as he shut the door and moved to his own berth after setting down his lute on the dresser in the room. “Saw ya watching. Like what ya see?” He wiggled his optic ridges, and Prowl cycled his optics before looking back.

“You were performing. Obviously, I would watch.”

Jazz’s grin fell. “Oh.” He shrugged. “Alright then.” He laid down and turned over.

Prowl coughed slightly. “...I did think you were very nice to look at?” He offered, weakly. He didn’t want to offend the other mech. His playing had been nice, and he was nice, and they were sharing a room, and it wasn’t like anyone would know if they had a fling… Prowl cut his processor off mid-thought. He had been taught to ignore those feelings. Hardly becoming of a fully-trained master of the frame.

But Jazz rolled back over, and Prowl swallowed and looked away again. Why did he feel like this? Jazz noticed the reaction and grinned this time, recognizing the other mech’s discomfort.

“Where?”

“Where what?” Prowl furrowed his brow.

“Where did ya do th’ martial trainin’?” Jazz clarified. “‘M guessing it was at Master Yoketron’s dojo out near Praxus?”

“How did…” Prowl’s optics lit up. “You would not know that unless you also studied there for a time.” He regarded the bard with more interest, processor diverted from its circular thoughts of  _ hot/want/training/can’t _ . 

Jazz turned to his back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. “Ya would be right.” He paused for a moment. “Grew up there, actually. Went by Meister back then. But I realized sittin’ around an’ meditatin’ wasn’t m’ jam, so I grabbed th’ lute I’d been left with an’ headed t’ Praxus. Started travelin’ after that.” He turned his helm to look at Prowl. “Seems ya had th’ same idea.”

Prowl pulled his knees up. “Not by choice.” He mumbled, doorwings drooping. “How long has it been since you were there?”

Jazz sat up, concerned. “Twenty-five, twenty-six vorns?” He guessed.

Prowl nodded, looking out the window. “Master Yoketron offlined five vorns ago. I’m sorry.”

Jazz stood and came over to Prowl, sitting beside him. “No, I’m sorry.” He said, quietly. “He may have raised m’, but we were never close. Ya evidently completed yer training. I’m sure ya were closer t’ him than me.”

Prowl shook his helm. “I don’t think any of us were. The others had all gone. I was going to stay, but he made me promise not to. Said I should see the world while I still could, that there would be plenty of time to be a ‘cranky celibate hermit’ when I got old.”

Jazz chuckled as he reached out and traced a doorwing joint, making Prowl shudder. “Sounds like him. An’ if I recall, there’s nothin’ in those codes against havin’ a little fun. I think yer ‘very nice to look at’ too. ” He teased, before quieting, his hand stilling. “But if ya say no, I’ll stop. No guilt.”

_ Frag it _ , Prowl thought as he turned and grabbed the other mech’s helm, kissing him hard, startling Jazz, before he responded enthusiastically, continuing his exploration of Prowl’s doorwings.

If Jazz was going to tease, then he would set aside his ideals. Just for tonight.

_ Only  _ for tonight.

* * *

_ Ratchet & Drift:  _ _ The Cleric and the Paladin _

Ratchet and Drift crouched on the ledge overlooking the cave that giant spiders had taken to calling home in the past couple deca-orns. The local village had lost a few people to them, and so had put out a request to all major cities for anyone willing to come clear the den. The group had grabbed the flyer and headed out. The other four had sent Ratchet and Drift ahead to scout out the area, and once they found the cave, Ratchet sent a message to the rest of the party with their location. 

Now, they were waiting for the others. Drift sat, meditating, while Ratchet tinkered with the item he was working on. They heard movement, and Drift opened his optics, only to see a sparkling walking too close to the cave, obviously not paying attention to their surroundings. Drift jumped up, but he was too late. Long legs darted out of the cave, grabbing the sparkling and dragging it back into the darkness. Drift drew his sword and leapt off the ledge, landing in a roll and running for the cave.

“Drift! Wait!” Ratchet called, following behind, though more slowly as his joints seized up. He heard the message from Knock Out in his head, telling him they were only a few minutes away, and he sent one frantically back, telling them _ hurry _ .

Ratchet plunged into the darkness, following the light that always seemed to emanate from Drift at times like these, knocking back the spiders that came too close with his own blade. He found him, surrounded, a whimpering sparkling at his pedes. Ratchet fought his way to Drift, cursing as he came closer and saw the cuts littering his frame, the energon beginning to fall freely from them. Drift just grinned at Ratchet, but failed to notice the spider sneaking up on him. Ratchet tried to strike it down, but too late. It sunk its fangs into Drift, who cried out and collapsed. Ratchet grabbed him and lowered him down, hearing the sounds of the others working their way in. He lashed out with his blade, trying to keep the spiders away and the two next to him alive until the others could make their way to them.

They had made it just in time, and got Drift and the sparkling out. Breakdown had taken them back to the village before returning to the camp the others had set up. 

Ratchet, after healing almost everyone else, had finally made it around to Drift, who, while having had the poison removed from his system, was still very much injured. Ratchet vented hard as he checked him over, whacking Drift over the head with the wrench he was carrying -- making Drift yelp and the others around the fire snicker -- before muttering under his breath and laying a hand on Drift’s shoulder. The dents in Drift’s armor popped out, the shallow cuts with energon pooling around them closed up, and Drift moved his helm from side to side.

“Thanks, Ratchet.” He said, quietly, leaning his helm back against the tree trunk he was propped up against and offlining his optics.

Ratchet rubbed his own optics, voice rising as he spoke. “Drift, I told you  _ not _ to go rushing in to the cave of spiders! I distinctly recall saying we needed to wait for the others, but no. You rush in, and it’s only sheer luck that we got you back out alive. You were  _ poisoned _ , Drift! You know how much you were bleeding? Slagging  _ idiot _ .” Ratchet vented again and started to move away, but Drift reached out and caught his arm. 

The others around the fire suddenly found various ways to be  _ not _ looking in their direction.

Drift, a firm grip on Ratchet’s arm, onlined his optics again, looking him over. His plating was splattered with energon, scratches, and one cut on his leg that looked painful. Drift pulled Ratchet back down (with very little effort, which, if Drift was less tired, would have made him ask if Ratchet had rested at all last night), and looked him in the optics as he allowed a bit of his Primus-given power to flow through him, making his hand glow as Ratchet’s injuries disappeared.

“I couldn’t let that sparkling die.” He whispered, tracing Ratchet’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Ratchet huffed, and hung his helm. “I know. I just…you move faster than I do these days. I didn’t know if I’d make it there to help you in time, and then that spider got you…” Ratchet trailed off.

Drift pushed himself up enough to place a gentle kiss on Ratchet’s lips. “Primus brought us together. I don’t think our story ends in a cave of spiders, do you?” Drift asked, still whispering.

Ratchet allowed himself to smile. “You and your belief in our destiny never fails to amaze me.” He leaned down until his forehelm leaned on Drift’s.

Drift chuckled, but didn’t respond, the two of them caught in their moment, for as long as it would last.

* * *

_ The fire crackled as somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. The night at its full, Ratchet and Drift sat together, just outside the circle of firelight, speaking quietly. Breakdown held an already-recharging Knock Out, and Prowl settled near Jazz for his watch-shift. Jazz, smiling at his Conjunx, began playing a tune on his lute, completing the scene. _

_ This was their story, and they would make the most of it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me all month. This has been a lot of fun, and I look forward to doing it again next year. 
> 
> In the meantime, I’ll be finishing up some of the AU’s I’ve promised and other unfinished stories, and hopefully starting a longer one (or two) based on a few others started here.
> 
> See you on another fic. :)


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